THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
EDWIN  CORLE 

PRESENTED  BY 
JEAN  CORLE 


By  GABRIELE  D'ANNUNZIO 


Trans  fa  ted  by 

ARTHUR   SYMONS 


CHICAGO 

THE  DRAMATIC  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 
MCMXIll 

v  '  3 


PRINTED  IN  ENGLAND 


College 
Librarv 

PQ 


FOR 
ELEONORA    DUSE 

OF  THE   BEAUTIFUL   HANDS 


Cosa  lella  mortal  passa,  e  non  iTartf 

,   LEOKARDO  DA  VINCI 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

Lucio  SBTTALA 
LORENZO  GADDI 
COSIMO  DALBO 
SILVIA  SETTALA 
FBANCESCA  DONI 

GlOCONDA  DlANTI 

LITTLE  BEATA 

LA  SlEENETTA 


At  Florence,  and  on  the  coast  of  Pisa, 
at  the  present  time 


GIOCONDA 


THE    FIRST  ACT 

A  quiet,  foursquare  room,  in  winch  the  arrangement  of 
everything  indicates  a  search  after  a  singular 
harmony,  revealing  the  secret  of  a  profound  corre- 
spondence between  the  visible  lines  and  the  quality 
of  the  inhabiting  mind  that  has  chosen  and  loved 
them.  All  around  seems  to  have  been  set  in  order 
by  the  hands  of  one  of  the  thoughtful  Graces.  The 
aspect  of  the  place  evokes  the  image  of  a  gentle  and 
secluded  life. 

Two  large  windows  are  open  on  the  garden  beneath  ; 
through  one  of  them  can  be  seen,  rising  against  the 
placid  fields  of  the  sky,  the  little  hill  of  San 
Miniato,  and  its  bright  Basilica,  and  the  convent, 
and  the  church  of  the  Or  onaca,  "la  Bella  Villanella," 
the  purest  vessel  of  Franciscan  sim]}licity. 

A 


2  GIOCONDA 

There  is  a  door  opening  into  an  inner  room,  another 
leading  out.  It  is  the  afternoon.  Through  loth 
windows  enter  the  light,  breath,  and  melody  of 
April. 

SCENE  I. 

SILVIA  SETTALA  and  the  old  man  LORENZO  GADDI  are 
seen  on  the  threshold  of  the  first  door,  side  by  side, 
as  they  both  come  into  the  fresh  spring  atmos- 
phere. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

Ah,  blessed  be  life !  Because  I  have  always  kept 
one  hope  alight,  to-day  I  can  bless  life. 

LORENZO  GADDI. 

New  life,  dear  Silvia,  good  brave  soul,  so  good  and 
so  strong !  The  storm  is  over.  Lticio  has  come  back 
to  you,  ( full  of  gratitude  and  of  tenderness,  after  all 
the  evil  It  is  as  if  he  were  born  again.  Just  now 
he  had  the  eyes  of  a  child. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

All  his  goodness  comes  back  to  him  when  you  are 
with  him.  When  he  calls  you  Maestro  his  voice 
becomes  so  affectionate  that  it  must  make  your  heart 
beat,  the  father's  heart  that  you  have  for  him. 


GIOCONDA  3 

LORENZO  GADDI. 

Just  now  he  had  the  same  eyes  that  I  saw  in  him 
when  he  came  to  me  for  the  first  time  and  I  put  the 
clay  into  his  hands.  His  eyes  were  gentle  and 
wondering ;  but  from  that  moment  his  thumb  was 
full  of  energy,  a  revealing  thing.  I  have  kept  his 
first  sketch.  I  thought  of  giving  it  to  you  on  the 
day  of  your  betrothal.  I  will  give  it  to  you  in  token 
of  your  new  happiness. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
Thanks,  Maestro. 

LORENZO  GADDI. 

It  is  the  head  of  a  woman  crowned  with  laurels.  I 
remember  there  was  rather  a  bad  model  there.  As 
he  worked,  he  hardly  looked  at  her.  Sometimes  he 
seemed  absorbed,  sometimes  anxious.  There  came 
out  of  his  hands  a  sort  of  confused  mask,  through 
which  one  half  saw  I  know  not  what  heroic  linea- 
ments. For  some  moments  he  remained  perplexed 
and  discouraged,  almost  ashamed,  at  the  sight  of  his 
work,  not  daring  to  turn  to  me.  But  suddenly, 
before  letting  it  out  of  his  hands,  with  a  few  touches 
he  set  a  crown  of  laurel  about  the  head.  How  it 
delighted  me  !  He  wanted  to  crown  in  the  clay  his 


4  G10CONDA 

own.  unaccomplished  dream.  The  end  of  his  day's 
work  was  an  act  of  pride  and  of  faith.  I  loved  him 
from  that  instant,  for  that  crown.  I  will  give  you 
the  sketch.  Perhaps,  if  you  look  at  it  closely,  you 
will  discover  the  ardent  face  of  Sappho,  that  ideal 
figure  which,  only  a  few  years  later,  he  was  able  to 
bring  to  perfection,  in  a  masterpiece. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

[Listening  eagerly.]  Sit  down,  sit  down,  Maestro ; 
stay  a  little  longer,  I  beg  of  you.  Sit  here,  by  the 
window.  Stay  a  few  minutes  longer.  I  have  a 
thousand  things  to  tell  you,  and  I  do  not  know  how 
to  tell  you  one  of  them.  If  I  could  overcome  this 
continual  tremor  !  I  want  you  to  understand.  .  .  . 

LORENZO  GADDI. 
Is  it  joy  that  makes  you  tremble  ? 

\JTe  sits  doicn  near  the  window.  SILVIA,  leaving 
back  against  the  window-sill,  remains  with 
her  face  turned  towards  him  ;  her  face  is  seen 
against  the  blue  air,  the  little  Mil  standing  out 
in  the  background. 

SILVIA  SETTALA 

I  do  not  know  if  it  is  joy.  Sometimes  everything 
that  has  been,  all  the  evil,  all  the  sorrow,  and  even 


GIOCONDA  5 

the  blood,  and  the  wound,  all  melts  away,  vanishes,  is 
wiped  out  into  oblivion,  is  there  no  more.  Some- 
times everything  that  has  been,  all  that  horrible 
weight  of  memory,  thickens  and  thickens,  and  grows 
compact  and  opaque  and  hard  as  a  wall,  like  a  rock 
that  I  shall  never  be  able  to  surmount.  Just  now, 
when  you  spoke  to  me,  when  you  offered  me  that 
unexpected  gift,  I  thought :  "  Ah,  now  I  shall  take 
that  gift  in  my  hands,  that  morsel  of  clay  into  which 
he  cast  the  first  seed  of  his  dreams,  as  into  a  fruitful 
soil ;  I  shall  take  it  in  my  hands,  I  shall  go  to  him 
smiling,  bearing  intact  the  better  part  of  his  soul  and 
of  his  life ;  and  I  shall  not  speak,  and  he  will  see  in 
me  the  guardian  of  all  his  goods,  and  he  will  never  go 
away  from  me  any  more,  and  we  shall  be  young 
again,  we  shall  be  young  again  ! "  I  thought  that, 
and  the  thought  and  the  act  were  mingled  in  one, 
with  an  incredible  ease.  Your  words  transfigured  the 
world.  Then,  do  you  know,  a  breath  passed,  a  vapour, 
the  merest  breathing,  a  mere  nothing,  and  cast  down 
everything,  and  destroyed  everything,  and  the 
anxiety  came  back,  and  the  dread,  and  the  tremor. 
O  April ! 

[Suddenly  she  turns  to  the  light,  drawing  a  deep 

breath. 
How  this  air  troubles  one,  and  yet  how  pure  it  is ! 


6  GIOCONDA 

All  one's  hope  and  despair  pass  in  the  wind  with  the 
dust  of  flowers.  [She  leans  out,  calling .]  Beata ! 
Beata ! 

LORENZO  GADDI. 
Is  the  little  one  in  the  garden  ? 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

There  she  is,  she  is  running  about  between  the 
rose-bushes.  She  is  wild  with  delight.  Beata  !  She 
has  hidden  herself  behind  a  hedge,  the  rogue.  She  is 
laughing.  Do  you  hear  her  laughing  ?  Ah,  when 
she  laughs,  I  know  the  joy  of  flowers  when  they  are 
tilled  to  the  brim  with  dew.  That  is  how  her  fresh 
laughter  fills  my  heart  to  overflowing, 

LORENZO  GADDI. 
Perhaps  Lucio  too  hears  her,  and  is  consoled. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

[Grave  and  trembling,  leaning  towards  the  Maestro, 
and  taking  his  hands.']  You  think  then  that  he  will 
really  be  healed  of  all  his  wounds  ?  You  think  he 
will  come  back  to  me  with  all  his  soul  ?  Did  you 
feel  that,  when  you  saw  him,  when  you  talked  with 
him  ?  What  did  your  heart  s;iy  ? 


GIOCONDA  7 

LORENZO  GADDI. 

It  seemed  to  me,  just  now,  that  he  had  the  look  of 
a  man  who  begins  to  live  over  again  with  a  new 
sense  of  life.  He  who  has  seen  the  face  of  death 
cannot  but  have  seen  in  that  instant  the  face  of 
truth  also.  The  bandage  is  taken  off  his  eyes.  He 
knows  you  now  wholly. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

Maestro,  Maestro,  if  you  deceive  yourself,  if  it  is  a 
vain  hope,  what  will  become  of  me  ?  All  my  strength 

is  worn  out. 

LORENZO  GADDI. 

But  what  is  there  now  to  fear  ? 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

He  wanted  to  die ;  but  tlie  other,  the  other  woman 
lives,  and  I  know  that  she  is  implacable. 

LORENZO  GADDI. 
And  what  could  she  do  now  ? 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
She  could  do  anything,  if  she  were  still  loved. 

LORENZO  GADDI. 
Still  loved  ?    Beyond  death? 


8  GIOCONDA 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

Beyond  death.  Ah,  if  you  knew  my  anguish  !  It 
was  for  her  that  he  wanted  to  die,  in  a  moment  of 
rage  and  of  delirium.  Think  how  he  must  have  loved 
her,  if  the  thought  of  me,  if  the  thought  of  Beata, 
could  not  restrain  him  !  Then,  in  that  awful 
moment,  he  was  her  prey  wholly ;  he  was  at  the 
height  of  his  fever,  of  his  agony,  and  all  the  rest  of 
the  world  was  blotted  out.  Think  how  he  must  have 
loved  her ! 

[The   woman's   voice   is   subdued  but  lacerating. 

The  old  man  bows  his  head. 

Now,  who  can  say  what  took  place  in  him,  after  the 
blow,  when  the  mist  of  death  passed  before  his  soul  ? 
Has  he  awakened  without  memory  ?  Does  he  see  an 
abyss  between  his  life  as  it  renews  itself  and  the  part 
of  himself  that  he  left  behind  in  that  mist  ?  Or  else, 
or  else  the  image  has  risen  again  out  of  the  depths, 
and  remains  there,  against  the  shadow,  dominant,  in 
indestructible  relief  ?  Tell  me  ! 

LORENZO  GADDI. 
[Perplexed.']     Who  can  say  ? 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
[In  a  sorrowful  voice.]     Ah,  now  you  yourself  dare 


GIOCONDA  5 

not  console  me  any  longer.     Then,  it  is  so  ?     There 
is  no  help? 

LORENZO  GADDI. 

[Taking  her  hands.]  No.  no,  Silvia.  I  meant  : 
who  can  say  what  change  is  brought  about  in  a  nature 
like  his  by  so  mysterious  a  force  ?  Everything  in  him 
speaks  of  some  new  good  thing  that  has  come  to  him. 
Look  at  him  when  he  smiles.  Just  now,  yonder, 
before  you  left  him  to  come  out  with  me,  when  he 
kissed  those  dear  hands  of  yours,  did  you  not  feel 
that  his  whole  heart  melted  into  tenderness  and 
humility  ? 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

[Her  face  slightly  flushed.]     Yes,  it  is  true. 

LORENZO  GADDI. 

\Lodking  at  her  hands.]     Dear,  dear  hands,  brave 

and  beautiful,  steadfast  and  beautiful  !     Your  hands 

are  extraordinarily  beautiful,  Silvia.   If  sorrow  has  too 

often  set  them  together,  it  has  sublimated  them  also, 

perfected  them.    They  are  perfect.    Do  you  remember 

the  woman  of  Verrocchio,  the  woman  with  the  bunch 

of  flowers,  with  the  clustering  hair?   Ah,  she  is  there  ! 

[H e  perceives,  from  the  look  and  smile  of  SILVIA, 

that  there  is  a  copy  of  the  bust  on  a  little 

cupboard  in  a  corner  of  the  room. 


io  GIOCONDA 

So  you  have  realised  the  relationship.  Those  two 
hands  seem  of  the  same  blood  as  yours,  they  are  of 
the  same  essence.  They  live — do  they  not  ? — with 
so  luminous  a  life  that  the  rest  of  the  figure  is 
darkened  by  them. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
[Smiling.]  Oh,  young,  always  young  in  soul ! 

LORENZO  GADDI. 

When  Lucio  comes  back  to  his  work,  he  ought  to 
model  your  hands  the  first  day.  I  have  a  fragment 
of  ancient  marble,  found  in  the  Oricellari  Gardens. 
I  will  give  it  to  him,  that  he  may  chisel  them  in  that, 
and  lay  them  up  like  a  votive  offering. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

[A  cloud  passing  across  her  forehead. .]  Do  you  think 
he  will  come  back  to  his  work  soon  ?  Will  he  wish 
to  ?  Have  you  spoken  of  it  with  him  ? 

LORENZO  GADDI. 
Yes,  just  now,  when  you  were  not  there. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
What  did  he  say  ? 


GIOCONDA  II 

LORENZO  OTADDI 

Vague,  delicious  things,  a  convalescent's  dreams. 
I  know  them.  I  too  was  once  ill.  It  seems  to  him 
now  as  if  he  has  lost  hold  of  his  art,  as  if  he  had  no 
longer  any  power  over  it,  as  if  he  had  become  a 
stranger  to  beauty.  Then  again  it  seems  to  him  as  if 
his  thumbs  had  assumed  a  magic  force,  and  that  at  a 
mere  touch  he  can  evoke  forms  out  of  the  clay  as 
easily  as  in  dreams.  He  is  somewhat  uneasy  about 
the  disorder  in  which  he  fancies  his  studio  was  left, 
on  the  Mugnone  yonder.  He  asked  me  to  go  and 
see.  Have  you  the  key  ? 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
[Anxiously^  There  is  the  caretaker. 

LORENZO  GADDI. 
How  long  is  it  since  you  were  there  ? 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

Since  this  began.  I  never  had  the  courage  to  go 
back  again.  I  feel  as  if  I  should  see  the  stains  of 
blood,  and  find  traces  of  her  everywhere.  She  is 
still  mistress  there.  That  place  is  still  her  domain. 

LORENZO  GADDI. 
The  domain  of  a  statue. 


12  GIOCONDA 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

No,  no.  Do  you  not  know  that  she  had  a  key  ? 
She  came  and  went  there  as  if  it  belonged  to  her. 
Ah,  I  have  told  you,  I  have  told  you ;  she  lives,  and 

is  implacable. 

LORENZO  GADDI. 

Are  you   sure   that   she   came   back,   after   what 

happened  ? 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

Sure.  Her  insolence  has  no  bounds.  She  is  with- 
out pity  and  without  shame. 

LORENZO  GADDI. 
And  he,  Lucio,  does  he  know  ? 
SILVIA  SETTALA. 

He  does  not  know.  But  he  will  surely  know  it 
sooner  or  later.  She  will  find  a  way  of  letting  him 

know. 

LORENZO  GADDI. 
But  why  ? 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

Because  she  is  implacable,  because  she  will  not 
relinguish  her  prey. 

[A  pause.     The  old  man  is  silent.     The  woman's 

voice  becomes  harsh  and  tremulous. 
And  the  statue,  the  Sphinx,  have  you  seen  it  ? 


CIOCONDA  13 

LORENZO  GADDI. 
[After  a  moments  hesitation.]  Yes.     I    have   seen 

it. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

Was  it  he  who  showed  it  to  you  ? 

LORENZO  GADDI. 

Yes,  one  day  last  October.     He  had  just  finished 

it.  [A  pause. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

\In  a  trembling  voice,  which  almost  Jails  herJ\  It  is 
wonderful,  is  it  not  ?     Tell  me. 

LORENZO  GADDI. 
Yes,  it  is  exquisitely  beautiful, 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

For  eternity ! 

\_A  pause,  burdened  with  a  thousand  undefined 
and  inevitable  things. 

THE  VOICE  OF  BEATA. 
[From  the  garden.]  Mamma  !  Mamma  ! 

LORENZO  GADDI. 
The  child  is  calling  you. 


14  GIOCONDA 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

[Starting  up,  and  leaning  out  of  the  window.] 
Beata !  Ah,  there  she  is ;  my  sister  Francesca  is 
coming  across  the  garden  ;  she  is  coming  here  with 
Cosimo  Dalbo.  Do  you  know  ?  Cosimo  has  returned 
from  Cairo ;  he  arrived  at  Florence  last  night.  Lucio 
will  be  delighted  to  see  him. 

LOEENZO  GADDI. 

[Rising  to  go.~\  Good-bye,  then,  dear  Silvia :  I  shall 
see  you  perhaps  to-morrow. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

Stay  a  little  longer.     My  sister  would  like  to  see 

you. 

LORENZO  GADDI. 

I  must  go.     I  am  late  now. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
When  shall  I  have  the  gift  you  promised  mo  ? 

LOKENZO  GADDI. 
Perhaps  to-morrow. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

No  perhaps,  no  perhaps.  I  shall  expect  you.  You 
must  coma  here  often,  every  day.  Your  presence 


GIOCONDA  15 

does  us  good.     Do  not  forsake  me.      I  trust  in  you, 
Maestro.     Remember  that  a  menace  is  still  hanging 

over  my  head. 

LORENZO  GADDI. 

Do  not  fear.     Keep  up  your  courage ! 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
[Moving  towards  the  door.]  Here  is  Francesca. 

SCENE    II. 

FRANCESCA  DONI  enters,  goes  up  to  her  si.ster,  and 
embraces  her.  COSIMO  DALBO,  who  follows  her, 
shakes  hands  with  LORENZO  GADDI,  who  is  on  the 
point  of  going  out. 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 

Do  you  see  whom  I  am  bringing?  We  met  out- 
side the  gate.  How  are  you,  Maestro  ?  Are  you 
going  jiibt  as  I  come  in  ?  [She  shakes  hands  with  the 

old  inan.~\ 

SILVIA  SETTALA 

[Holding  out  her  hand  cordially.]  Welcome  back, 
Dalbo.  We  were  expecting  you.  Lucio  is  impatient 
to  see  you. 


16  GIOCONDA 

COSIMO  DALBO. 

[With  affectionate  solicitude.]  How  is  he  now  ?  Is 
he  up  ?  Is  he  quite  well  ? 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

He  is  convalescent ;  still  a  little  weak ;  but  getting 
stronger  every  day.  The  wound  is  entirely  closed. 
You  will  see  him  in  a  minute.  The  doctor  is  with 
him  ;  I  will  go  and  tell  him  you  are  here.  It  will  be 
a  great  delight  for  him.  He  has  asked  after  you 
several  times  to-day.  He  is  impatient  to  see  you. 
[She  turns  to  LOKENZO  GADDI.]  To-morrow,  then. 

[She  goes  out  ivith  a  light  and  rapid  step.      The 

sister,  the  MAESTRO,  and  the  friend  follow  her 

with  their  eyes. 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 

[With  a  kindly  smile]  Poor  Silvia  !  For  the  last 
few  days,  she  seems  as  if  she  had  wings.  When  I 
look  at  her  sometimes,  it  seems  to  me  as  if  she  is 
going  to  take  flight  towards  happiness.  And  no  one 
deserves  happiness  more ;  is  it  not  true,  Maestro  ? 

You  know  her. 

LORENZO  GADDI. 

Yes,  she  is  really  as  your  sisterly  eyes  see  her.  She 
comes  winged  out  of  her  martyrdom.  There  is  a  sort 


GIOCONDA  17 

of  incessant  quiver  in  her.  I  felt  it  just  now,  when 
she  stood  near  me.  Truly  she  is  in  a  state  of  grace. 
There  is  no  height  to  which  she  could  not  attain. 
Lucio  has  in  his  hands  a  life  of  flame,  an  infinite 

force. 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 

You  were  with  him  some  time  to-day. 

LORENZO  GADDI. 
Yes,  hours. 

FllANCESCA    DONI. 

How  was  he  ? 

LORENZO  GADDI. 

Running  over  with  sweetness,  and  a  little  be- 
wildered. You  will  see  him  presently,  Dal  bo.  His 
sensitiveness  is  a  danger.  Those  who  love  him  can 
do  him  much  good  and  much  harm.  A  word  agitates 
and  convulses  him.  Watch  over  all  your  words,  you 
who  love  him.  Good-bye.  I  must  go. 

[Takes  leave  of  them  loth. 
FRANCESCA  DONI. 

Good-bye,  Maestro.  Perhaps  we  shall  see  you  here 
igain  to-morrow.  I  hope  so.  You  have  a  horror  of 
my  stairs  ! 

[She  accompanies  the  old  inan  to  the  door ;  then 

returns  to  the  friend. 
What  a  fire  of  intelligence  and  of  goodness,  in  that 

B 


18  GIOCONDA 

old  man  !     When  he  comes  into  a  room  he  seems  to 
bring  comfort  to  all.     The  sad  rejoice  and  the  merry 

become  fervent. 

COSTMO  DALBO. 

He  inspires  the  soul ;  he  belongs  to  the  noblest 
race  of  mankind.  His  work  is  a  continual  exaltation 
of  life;  it  is  the  continual  force  of  communicating  a 
spark,  whether  to  his  statues  or  to  the  creatures  whom 
he  meets  by  the  way.  Lorenzo  Gaddi  seems  to  me  to 
deserve  a  far  higher  fame  than  he  receives  from  his 

contempories. 

FKANCESCA  DONI. 

It  is  true,  it  is  true.  If  you.  knew  what  enprgy 
and  what  delicacy  he  showed,  in  that  horrible  affair  ! 
When  the  thing  happened,  my  sister  was  not  there  ; 
she  was  with  our  mother,  at  Pisa,  with  Beata.  The 
thing  happened  in  the  studio,  there,  on  the  Mugnone, 
in  the  evening.  Only  the  caretaker  heard  the  report. 
When  he  discovered  the  truth,  he  ran  to  tell  Lorenzo 
Gaddi  before  any  one  else.  In  the  anguish  and 
horror  of  that  winter  evening,  in  the  midst  of  all  the 
confusion  and  uncertainty,  he  alone  never  lost  his 
presence  of  mind,  nor  had  a  single  instant's  hesitation. 
He  preserved  a  strange  lucidity,  by  which  every  one 
was  dominated.  He  made  every  arrangement :  all 
obeyed  him.  It  was  he  who  had  poor  Lucio  brought 


GIOCONDA  19 

to  the  house  here,  half  dead.  The  doctor  despaired  of 
saving  him.  He  alone  declared,  with  an  obstinate 
faith  :  "  No,  he  will  not  die,  he  will  not  die,  he  cannot 
die."  I  believed  him.  Ah,  what  a  heroic  night, 
Dalbo.  And  then  the  arrival  of  Silvia,  his  telling 
her  himself,  forbidding  her  to  enter  the  room  where 
a  mere  breath  might  have  quenched  that  glimmer  of 
life :  and  her  strength,  her  incredible  endurance 
under  watching  and  waiting  for  whole  weeks,  the 
proud  and  silent  vigilance  with  which  she  guarded 
the  threshold  as  if  to  hinder  the  coming  of  death  ! 

COSIMO  DALBO. 

And  I  was  far  away,  unconscious  of  all,  blissfully 
idle  in  a  boat  on  the  Nile  !  Yet  T  had  a  kind  of  pre- 
sentiment, before  leaving.  That  was  why  I  tried 
every  means  to  persuade  Lucio  to  go  with  me,  as 
we  had  often  dreamed  of  doing  together.  He  had 
then  finished  his  statue ;  and  I  thought  that  his 
liberty  was  in  that  wonderful  marble.  He  said, 
"  Not  yet ! "  And  a  few  months  after  he  was 
seeking  it  in  death.  Ah,  if  I  had  not  gone  away,  if 
I  had  stayed  by  him,  if  I  had  been  more  faithful,  if  I 
had  known  how  to  defend  him  against  the  enemy, 
nothing  would  have  happened. 


20  GIOCONDA 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 

There  is  nothing  to  regret  if  so  much  good  can 
come  out  of  so  much  evil.  Who  knows  in  what 
sadness  of  despair  my  sister  might  have  perished,  if 
the  violence  of  that  act  had  not  suddenly  reunited 
her  to  Lucio  !  But  do  not  think  that  the  enemy  has 
laid  down  arms.  She  has  not  abandoned  the  field. 

COSIMO  DALBO. 
Who  ?  Gioconda  Dianti  ? 

FUANCESCA  DONI. 

[Motioning  to  him  to  be  silent,  and  lowering  her 
voice.]  Do  not  say  that  name  ! 


SCENE  TIT. 

Lucio  SETTALA  appears  on  the  threshold  of  the  door, 
leaning  on  the  arm  of  SILVIA;  he  is  pale  and 
thin,  and  his  eyes  look  extraordinarily  large  ivith 
suffering  ;  a  faint,  sweet  smile  gives  refinement  to 
a  voluptuous  mouth. 

Lucio  SETTALA. 
Cosimo ! 


GIOCONDA  21 

COSIMO  DALBO. 

[Turning  and  running  up  to  himJ\  Oh,  Lucio,  dear, 
dear  friend ! 

\_lle  puts  his  arms  about  the  convalescent,  ivhile 

SILVIA  moves  aside,  nearer  to  her  sister,  and 

goes  out   with    her,   slowly,  pausing  for   a 

moment  to  look  at  her  husband  before  going. 

You    are    well   again,    are   you    not  ?     You   are  not 

suffering  now  ?     1  find  you  a  little  pale,  a  little  thin, 

but  not  so  very  much.     You  look  as  I  have  seen  you 

sometimes  after  a  period  of  feverish  work,  when  you 

have  been  with    your  clay  for    twelve    hours  a  day, 

consumed  with  that  fire.     Do  you  remember  ? 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

[Looking  confusedly  about  him,  to  see  if  SILVIA  is 
still  in  the  room.]  Yes,  yes. 

COSIMO  DALBO. 
Then  too  your  eyes  looked  larger.  .  .  . 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

[With  an  indefinable,  almost  childish  restlessness] 
And  Silvia?  Where  is  Silvia  gone  Wasn't  she 
here  with  Francesca  ? 


22  G10CONDA 

COSIMO  DALBO. 
They  have  left  us  alone. 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

Why?  She  thinks,  perhaps.  .  .  .  No,  I  have 
nothing  to  tell  you,  I  know  nothing  now  any  more. 
Perhaps  you  know.  For  me,  no ;  I  don't  remember. 
I  don't  want  to  remember.  Tell  me  about  yourself  ! 
Tell  me  about  yourself !  Is  the  desert  beautiful  ? 

[He  speaks  in  a  singular  way,  as  if  in  a  dream, 
with  a  mixture  of  agitation  and  stupor. 

COSIMO  DALBO. 

I  will  tell  you.  But  you  must  not  tire  yourself. 
I  will  tell  you  all  my  pilgrimage  ;  I  will  come  here 
every  day,  if  I  may ;  I  will  stay  with  you  as  long  as 
you  like,  only  not  long  enough  to  tire  you.  Sit  here. 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

[Smiling J\  Do  you  think  I  am  so  feeble? 
COSIMO  DALBO. 

No,  you  are  all  right  now,  but  it  is  better  for  you 
not  to  tire  yourself.  Sit  here. 

[He  makes  him  sit  down  near  the  window,  and 
looks  out  at  the  hill  clearly  outlined  against 
the  April  sky. 


GIOCONDA  23 

Ah,  my  dear  friend,  I  have  seen  marvellous  things 
with  these  eyes,  and  they  have  drunk  light  in  com- 
parison with  which  this  seems  ashen  ;  but,  when  I 
see  again  a  simple  line  like  that  (look  at  San 
Miniato  !)  I  seem  to  find  myself  again,  after  an 
interval  of  wandering.  Look  at  that  dear  hill !  The 
pyramid  of  Cheops  does  not  rmike  one  forget  the 
Bella  Villanella  ;  and  more  than  once,  in  the  gardens 
of  Koubbeh  and  Gizeh,  hives  of  honey,  chewing  a 
grain  of  resin,  I  thought  of  a  slim  Tuscan  cypress  on 
the  edge  of  a  narrow  giove  of  olives. 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

[Half  closing  his  eyelids  under  the  breath  of  Spring.] 
It  is  good  to  be  here,  is  it  not  ?  There  is  an  odour  of 
violets.  Perhaps  there  is  a  bunch  of  violets  in  the 
room.  Silvia  puts  them  everywhere,  even  under  my 
pillow. 

COSIMO  DALBO. 

Do  you  know,  I  have  brought  you  the  violets  of  the 
desert,  between  the  pages  of  a  Koran.  I  gathered 
them  in  the  garden  of  a  Persian  monastery,  near  the 
Thebaid,  on  the  side  of  the  Mokattam,  on  an 
eminence  of  sand.  There,  in  a  cavern  dug  out  of  the 
mountain,  covered  with  carpets  and  cushions,  the 


24  GIOCONDA 

monks  offer  their  visitors  a  tea  with  a  special  flavour, 
Arab  tea,  perfumed  with  violets. 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

And  you  have  brought  them  for  me,  buried  in  a 
book !  How  happy  you  were  to  be  able  to  gather 
them,  so  far  away ;  and  I  might  have  been  with  you. 

COSIMO  DALBO. 

There,  all  was  oblivion.  I  went  up  by  a  long, 
straight  stone  staircase,  that  leads  from  the  foot  of 
the  mountain  to  the  gate  of  the  Bectaschiti.  The 
desert  was  all  about ;  vast,  hallucinating  dryness,  in 
which  there  was  no  life  but  the  stirring  of  wind  and 
the  quivering  of  heat.  I  could  only  distinguish  here 
and  there,  between  the  sand-heaps,  the  white  stones 
of  Arab  cemeteries.  I  heard  the  crying  of  hawks 
high  up  in  the  sky.  I  saw  on  the  Nile  multitudes  of 
boats  with  great  lateen  sails,  white,  slow,  going  on, 
going  on,  like  snow-flakes.  And  little  by  little  I  was 
caught  up  into  an  ecstasy  that  you  can  never  have 
known,  the  ecstasy  of  light. 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

[In  a  far  off  voice.]  And  I  might  have  been  with 
you,  loitering,  forgetting,  dreaming,  drunk  with  light. 
You  went  down  the  Nile,  did  you  not  ?  in  an  ancient 


GIOCONDA  25 

boat  loaded  with  wine-skins,  sacks,  and  cages.  You 
landed  on  an  island  towards  evening ;  you  were 
dressed  in  white  serge  ;  you  were  thirsty  ;  you  drank 
at  a  spring ;  you  walked  barefoot  upon  flowers;  and 
the  odour  was  so  strong  that  you  seemed  to  have  for- 
gotten hunger.  Ah,  I  thought,  I  felt,  these  things 
from  my  pillow.  And  I  followed  you  through  the 
desert,  when  the  fever  was  at  its  height ;  through  a 
desert  of  red  sand,  sown  with  glittering  stones  that 
splintered  crackling  like  twigs  in  the  fire. 

A  pause.     He  leans  forward  a  little,  saying  in  a 

clear  voice  and  with  open  eyes : 
And  the  Sphinx  ? 

COSIMO  DALBO. 

I  saw  it  first  at  night,  by  the  light  of  stars,  sunken 
into  the  sand  that  still  keeps  the  violent  imprint  of 
whirlwinds.  The  face  and  the  croup  rose  out  of  that 
quieted  storm,  all  that  was  human  and  all  that  was 
bestial  in  it.  The  face,  whose  mutilations  were 
hidden  by  the  shadow,  seemed  to  me  at  that  moment 
exquisitely  beautiful :  calm,  august,  cerulean  as  the 
night,  almost  meek.  There  is  nothing  in  the  world, 
Lucio,  so  much  alone  as  that ;  but  my  mind  was,  as 
it  were,  before  multitudes  who  had  slept,  and  on 
whose  eyelashes  the  dew  had  fallen.  Then  I  saw  it 


26  GIOCONDA 

again  by  day.  The  face  was  bestial,  like  the  croup  ; 
the  nose  and  throat  were  eaten  away ;  the  droppings 
of  birds  fouled  the  fillets.  It  was  the  heavy  wingless 
monster  imagined  by  the  excavators  of  tombs,  by  the 
embalmers  of  corpses.  And  I  saw,  in  the  sun  before 
me,  your  Sphinx,  pure  and  imperious,  with  wings 
imprisoned  alive  in  the  shoulders. 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

[TF^A  a  sudden  emtionJ]  My  statue  ?  You  mean  my 
statue  ?  You  saw  it,  ah,  yes,  before  you  went ;  and 
you  found  it  beautiful. 

\IIe  looks    uneasily  toirards   the   door,  fearing 
SILVIA  might  hear  him,  and  lowers  his  voice. 
You  found  it  beautiful  ? 

COSIMO  DALBO. 

Exquisitely  beautiful. 

[Lucio  covers  his  eyes  with  both  hands  and 
remains  for  some  seconds  as  if  trying  to  evoke 
a  vision  in  the  darkness. 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

[Uncover ing  his  eyes.~\  I  no  longer  see  it.  It  escapes 
me.  It  comes  and  goes  in  a  breath,  confusedly.  If  I 
had  it  here  before  me  now  it  would  seem  new  to  me : 


GIOCONDA  27 

I  should  cry  out.     And  yet  I   carved  it,  with  these 
hands ! 

\IIe  looks  at  his  thin,  sensitive  hands.     His  agita- 
tion increases. 

I  don't  know.  I  don't  know.  In  the  beginning  of 
my  fever,  when  I  still  had  the  bullet  in  my  flesh,  and 
the  continual  murmuring  of  death  in  my  lost  soul,  I 
saw  it  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  lit  like  a  torch, 
as  if  I  myself  had  moulded  it  out  of  some  incandescent 
material.  So  for  many  days  and  nights  I  saw  it 
through  my  eyelids.  It  grew  brighter  as  my  fever 
increased.  When  my  pulse  burned  it  turned  to 
flame.  It  was  as  if  all  the  blood  shed  at  its  feet  had 
gone  up  it  into  and  boiled  up  in  it  ... 

COSIMO  DALDO. 

\Uneasily,  looking  towards  the  door,  with  the  same 
fear.]  Lucio,  Lucio,  you  said  just  now  that  you  knew 
nothing  now,  that  you  did  not  want  to  remember 
anything.  Lucio ! 

\_lle   gently    shakes    his   friend,    who    remains 
rigid. 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

[Recollecting  himself.]  Do  not  fear.  I  have  left  it 
all  far,  far  behind  me,  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea.  The 
statue  was  drowned  too,  with  all  the  rest,  after  the 


28  GIOCONDA 

shipwreck.  That  is  why  I  can  no  longer  see  it  except 
confusedly,  as  if  through  deep  water. 

COSIMO  DALBO. 

It  alone  shall  be  saved,  to  live  for  ever  ;  and  so 
much  sorrow  shall  not  have  been  suffered  in  vain,  so 
much  evil  shall  not  have  been  useless,  if  one  thing  so 
beautiful  remains  over,  to  be  added  to  the  ornament  of 

life. 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

[Smiling  again  with  his  faint  smile  and  speaking  in 
his  far-off  voice.]  It  is  true.  I  sometimes  think  of  the 
fate  of  one  whose  ship  and  all  that  was  in  it  went  down 
in  a  storm.  On  a  day  as  calm  as  this,  he  took  a  bout 
and  a  net,  and  he  returned  to  the  place  of  the  ship- 
wreck, hoping  to  draw  something  up  out  of  the  depths. 
And,  after  much  labour,  he  drew  on  shore  a  statue. 
And  the  statue  was  so  beautiful  that  he  wept  for  joy 
to  see  it  again  ;  and  he  sat  down  on  the  sea-shore  to 
gaze  upon  it,  and  was  content  with  that  gain,  and 
would  seek  after  nothing  more:  "well,  I  forget  the 
rest !  "  \He  rises  hastily. 

"Why  has  not  Silvia  come  back  ?  [He  listens. 

Who  is  laughing?  Ah,  it  is  Beata  in  the  garden. 
Look  ;  San  Miniato  is  all  gold  ;  it  lightens.  Is  there 
a  more  glorious  light  at  Thebes  ? 


GIOCONDA  29 

COSIMO  DALBO. 

The  ecstasy  of  light !  I  told  you  :  you  can  know  it 
nowhere  else.  Circles,  garlands,  wheels,  roses  of 
splendour,  innumerable  sparkles.  .  .  .  The  verses  of 
the  Paradiso  recur  to  one's  mind.  Only  Dante  has 
found  dazzling  words.  In  certain  hours  the  Nile 
becomes  the  flood  of  topazes,  the  "  marvellous  gulf." 
Like  a  stone  in  water,  a  gesture  in  the  air  arouses 
thousands  and  thousands  of  waves.  All  things  swim 
in  light;  all  the  leaves  drip  with  it.  The  women, 
who  pass  along  the  stream  with  full  wine-skins, 
actually  flame  like  the  angelic  host  in  the  song,  "  dis- 
tinct in  light  and  form." 

[Lucio,  catching  sight  of  a  bunch  of  violets  on  the 
table,  takes  them  up  and  buries  his  face  in 
them,  to  drink  in  their  odour. 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

[Still  holding  the  violets  to  his  nostrils  and  half- 
closing  his  eyes  with  delight.]  Are  the  women  of  the 
Nile  beautiful  ? 

COSIMO  DALBO. 

Some,  in  youth,  have  bodies  of  marvellous  purity 
and  elegance.  You,  who  like  tirm  and  active  muscles, 
a  certain  acerbity  in  form,  long,  nervous  legs,  would 


30  GIOCONDA 

find  incomparable  models  there.  How  often  have  I 
thought  of  you  !  In  the  island  of  Elephantina  I  had 
a  little  friend  of  fourteen ;  a  girl  golden  as  a  date, 
thin,  lithe,  firm,  with  strong,  arched  loins,  straight, 
strong  legs,  perfect  knees ;  a  very  rare  thing,  as  you 
know.  In  all  that  hard  slenderness,  which  gave  one 
the  impression  of  a  javelin,  sharp  and  precise,  three 
things  delighted  me  with  their  infinitely  soft  grace  : 
the  mouth,  the  shadow  of  the  eyelashes,  the  tips  of 
the  fingers.  She  braided  her  hair  with  fingers  rosy- 
tipped  like  petals  dyed  with  purple  :  and  to  watch  her 
in  that  act,  on  the  threshold  of  her  white  house,  was 
the  delight  of  my  mornings.  I  should  like  to  have 
taken  her  away  with  the  statuettes,  the  scarabsei,  the 
cloths,  the  tobacco,  the  scents,  the  weapons.  I  have 
brought  you  a  beautiful  bow  that  I  bought  at 
Assouan,  and  that  is  a  little  like  her. 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

[TF&A  a  slight  perturbation,  throwing  back  his  head.  ] 
She  must  have  been  a  delicious  creature  ! 

COSIMO  DALBO. 

Delicious  and  harmless.     She  was  like  a  beautiful 
bow,  but  her  arrows  were  without  venom. 


GIOCONDA  31 

Lucio  SETTALA. 
You  loved  her  ? 

COSIMO  DALBO. 

As  I  love  my  horse  and  my  dogs. 

Lucio  SF.TTALA. 

Ah,  you  were  happy  there;  your  life  was  light  and 
easy.  It  must  have  been  the  island  of  Elephantiua 
where  I  saw  you  come  on  shore,  in  a  dream.  I  might 
have  been  with  you !  But  I  will  go,  I  will  leave  here. 
Do  you  not  long  to  return  ?  I  will  have  a  white 
hou=e  on  the  Nile;  I  will  make  my  statues  with  the 
slime  of  the  river,  and  set  them  up  in  that  light  of 
yours  that  will  turn  them  to  gold  for  me.  Silvia ! 
Silvia ! 

\lle  calls   towards   the   door   as  if  seized   by  a 

sudden  impatience^  an  anxious  will  to  live. 
"Would  it  be  too  late  ? 

COSIMO  DALBO. 
It  is  too  late.     The  great  heats  are  coining  on. 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

What  does  it  matter?  I  love  summer  heat,  sultri- 
ness even.  All  the  pomegranates  will  be  in  flower  in 
the  gardens,  and  when  it  rains  they  will  see  those 


32  GIOCONDA 

large,  warm   drops   that   make   the   earth   sigh   for 

pleasure. 

COSIMO  DALBO. 

But  the  Khamsin  ?  when  all  the  desert  rises  up 
against  the  sun  ? 

[SILVIA  appears  on  the  threshold,  smiling,  her 
whole  being  visibly  animated.  She  has 
changed  her  gown  ;  she  is  dressed  in  a  clearer, 
more  spring-like  colour ;  and  she  carries  in 
her  hands  a  bunch  of  fresh  roses. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

What  do  you  say,  Dalbo,  against  the  sun  ?     Did 

you  call,  Lucio  ? 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

[Re-taken  by  a  kind  of  restless  timidity,  as  of  a  man 
who  feels  the  need  of  self-abandonment,  to  which  he 
dares  not  give  wayl\  Yes,  I  called  you,  because  I 
thought  you  were  never  coming  back.  Cosimo  was 
telling  me  of  so  many  beautiful  things.  I  wanted  you 
to  hear  them  too. 

[He  looks  at  his  ivife  with  surprise  in  his  eyes,  as 

if  he  discovered  a  new  charm  in  her, 
Were  you  going  out  ? 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
[Blushing  slightly.]  Ah,  you  are  looking  at  my  gown. 


GIOCONDA  33 

I  put  it  on  to  see  how  it  looked,  while  Francesca  was 
there.  My  sister  sends  her  apologies  to  you  both  for 
having  gone  without  coming  to  say  good-bye.  She 
was  in  a  hurry :  her  children  were  waiting  for  her. 
She  hopes,  Dalbo,  that  you  will  come  and  see  her 
soon.  [She  puts  the  roses  on  a  table. 

Will  you  dine  with  us  to-night  ? 

COSIMO   DALBO 
Thanks.     I  cannot  to-night.     My  mother  expects 

ine. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

Naturally.     To-morrow,  then  ? 

COSIMO   DALBO. 

To-morrow.     I  will  bring   my   presents    for   you, 

Lucio. 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

[  With  childish  curiositi/.~\  Yes,  ye.c,  bring  them,  bring 

them. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

[Smiling  mysteriously.]  I  too  am  to  have  a  present 

to  morrow. 

Lucio  SETTALA. 
From  whom  ? 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

From  the  Maestro. 


34  GIOCONDA 

Lucio  SETTALA. 
What  ? 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
You  shall  see. 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

[With  a  joyous  movement.]  You  too  shall  see  all  the 
beautiful  things  that  Cosimo  has  brought  me :  cloths, 
scents,  weapons,  scarabsei.  .  .  . 

COSIMO   DALBO, 

Amulets  against  every  evil,  talismans  for  happiness. 
On  Gebel-el-Tair,  in  a  Coptic  convent,  I  found  the 
most  powerful  of  scarabsei.  The  monk  told  me  a  long 
story  of  a  cenobite  who,  at  the  time  of  the  first  perse- 
cution, took  refuge  in  a  vault,  and  found  a  mummy 
there,  and  took  it  out  of  its  swathings  of  balm,  and 
restored  it  to  life,  and  the  resuscitated  mummy,  with  its 
painted  lips,  told  him  the  story  of  its  old  life,  which 
had  been  one  whole  tissue  of  happiness.  In  the  end, 
as  the  cenobite  wished  to  convert  it,  it  preferred  to  lie 
down  again  in  its  embalmings  ;  but  first  it  gave  him 
the  guardian  scarabseus.  To  tell  you  what  use  was 
made  of  it  by  the  solitary,  and  through  what  vicissi- 
tudes it  passed  across  the  centuries  into  the  hands  of 
the  good  Copt,  would  take  too  long.  Certainly,  a 


GIOCONDA  35 

more  powerful  one  is  not  in  all  Egypt.     Here  it  is :  I 
offer  it  to  you,  I  offer  it  to  you  both. 

[He  hands  the  amulet  to  SILVIA,  who  examines  it 

carefully  and  then  passes  it  to  Lucio,  with  a 

sudden  light  in  her  eyes. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

How  blue  it  is       It  is  brighter  than  a  turquoise. 

Look. 

COSIMO   DALBO. 

The  Copt  said  to  me  :  "  Small  as  a  gem  great  as  a 
destiny  ! " 

[Lucio  turns  the  mystic  stone  between  his  fingers. 

uhich  tremble  a  little,  fumblingbj. 
Good-bye  then  :    to-morrow  !     Good  night. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

[Picking  a  rose  out  of  the  bunch  and  offering  it  to 
himJ\  Here  is  a  fresh  rose  in  exchange  for  the 
amulet.  Take  it  to  your  mother 

COSIMO  DALBO. 

Thanks.  To-morrow  !  [ffe  salutes  them  again  and 
goes  out. 


36  GIOCONDA 


SCENE  IV. 

Lucio  SETTALA  smiles  timidly,  turning  the  scarabceus 
between  his  fingers,  while  SILVIA  puts  the  roses 
in  a  vase.  Both,  in  the  silence,  hear  the  beating 
of  their  anxious  hearts.  The  setting  sun  gilds 
the  room.  In  the  square  of  the  window  is  seen 
the  pallid  sky ;  San  Miniato  shines  on  the 
height ;  the  air  is  soft,  without  a  breath  of 

wind. 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

[Looking   into    the    air,   and  listening   anxiously.] 
There  is  a  bee  in  the  room. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
[liaising  her  head.]     A  bee  ? 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

Yes.     Don't  you  hear  it  ? 

[Both  listen  to  lite  murmur 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
You  are  right. 

Lucio  SETTALA. 
Perhaps  you  brought  it  in  with  the  roses. 


GIOCONDA  37 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
Beata  picked  these. 

LUCIA  SETTALA. 

I  heard  her  laughing,  just  now,  down  in  the 
garden. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

How  pleased  she  is  to  be  home  again ! 

Lucio  SETTALA. 
It  was  a  good  thing  to  send  her  away  then. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

She  is  stronger  and  lovelier  for  having  breathed 
the  odour  of  the  pines.  How  good  the  spring  must 
be  at  Bocca  d'Arno  1  Would  you  not  like  to  go 
there  for  a  while  ? 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

There,  by  the  sea.   .  .   .  Would  you  like  it  ? 

[Their  voices  are  altered  by  a  slight  tremor. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

It  has  always  been  a  dream  of  mine  to  pass  one 
spring  there. 


38  GIOCONDA 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

[Choked  with  emotion.]  Your  dream  is  mine, 
Silvia.  [The  amulet  falls  from  his  hands. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

[Stooping  quickly  to  pick  it  up.]  Ah,  you  have  let 
it  fall !  They  would  say  it  is  a  bad  omen.  See. 
I  put  it  on  Beata's  head.  "  Small  as  a  gem,  great  as 
a  destiny  !  " 

[She  lays  the  amulet  delicately  upon  the  roses. 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

[Holding  out  his  hands  to  her,  as  if   imploring.  ] 

Silvia !  Silvia  ! 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

[Running  to  him  ]  Do  you  feel  ill  ?  You  look 
paler.  Ah,  you  have  tired  yourself  too  much  to-day, 
you  are  worn  out.  Sit  here,  come.  Will  you  sip 
some  of  this  cordial  '(  Do  you  feel  as  if  you  are 
going  to  faint  ?  Tell  me  ! 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

[Taking  her  hands  with  an  outburst  of  love.]  No,  no, 
Silvia  ;  I  never  felt  so  well.  You,  you  sit  down,  sit 
here  ;  and  I  at  your  feet,  at  last,  with  all  my  soul,  to 
adore  you,  to  adore  you  ! 


GIOCONDA  39 

[She  sinks  back  on  the  divan  and  he  falls  on 
his  knees  before  her.  She  is  convulsed  and 
trembling,  and  lays  her  hand  on  his  lips,  as 
if  to  keep  him  from  speaking.  Breath  and 
words  pass  between  her  Angers. 

At  last !  It  was  like  a  flood  coming  from  far  off, 
a  flood  of  all  the  beautiful  things  and  all  the  good 
things  that  you  have  poured  out  on  my  life  since  you 
began  to  love  me ;  and  my  heart  overflowed,  ah, 
overflowed  so  that  I  staggered  under  the  weight  of  it, 
and  fainted  and  died  of  the  pain  and  the  sweetness  of 
it,  because  I  dared  not  say.  .  .  . 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

[Her  face  white,  her  voice  almost  extinct.]  No  more 

say  no  more ! 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

Hear  me,  hear  me  !  All  the  sorrows  that  you  have 
suffered,  the  wounds  that  you  have  received  without 
a  cry,  the  tears  that  you  have  hidden  lest  I  should 
have  shame  and  remorse,  the  smiles  with  which  you 
have  veiled  your  agonies,  your  infinite  pity  for  my 
wanderings,  your  invincible  courage  in  the  face  of 
death,  your  hard  fight  for  my  life,  your  hope  always 
alight  beside  my  bed,  your  watches,  cares,  continual 
tremors,  expectation,  silence,  joy,  all  that  is  deep,  all 


4o  GIOCONDA 

that  is  sweet  and  heroic  in  you,  I  know  it  all,  I  feel 
it  all,  dear  soul ;  and,  if  violence  is  enough  to  break 
a  yoke,  if  blood  is  enough  for  redemption  (oh,  let 
me  speak!)  I  bless  the  evening  and  the  hour  that 
brought  me  dying  into  this  house  of  your  martyrdom 
and  of  your  faith  to  receive  once  more  at  your  hands, 
these  divine  hands  that  tremble,  the  gift  of  life. 

[He  presses  his  convulsed  mouth  against,  the 
palms  of  her  hands ,  aad  she  gazes  at  him 
through  the  tears  that  moisten  her  eyelids, 
transfigured  with  unexpected  happiness. 


SILVIA  SETTALA. 

[In  a  faint  and  broken  voiced]  No  more,  say  no 
more  !  My  heart  cannot  bear  it.  You  suffocate  me 
with  joy.  I  longed  for  one  word  from  you,  only  one, 
no  more ;  and  all  at  once  you  flood  me  with  love,  you 
fill  up  every  vein,  you  raise  me  to  the  other  side  of 
hope,  you  outpnss  my  dreams,  you  give  me  happiness 
beyond  all  expectation.  Ah,  what  did  you  say  of  my 
sorrows  ?  What  is  sorrow  endured,  what  is  silence 
constrained,  what  is  a  tear,  what  is  a  smile,  now,  in 
the  face  of  this  flood  that  bears  me  away  ?  I  feel  as 
if  by-and-by,  for  you,  for  you,  I  shall  be  sorry  not  to 
have  suffered  more.  Perhaps  I  have  not  reached  the 


GIOCONDA  41 

depths  of  sorrow,  but  I  know  that  I  have  reached  the 
height  of  happiness. 

[She  blindly  caresses  his  head,  as  it  lies  on  her 

knees. 

Rise,  rise !  Come  nearer  to  my  heart,  rest  on  me, 
give  way  to  my  tenderness,  press  my  hands  on 
your  eyelids,  be  silent,  dream,  call  back  the  deep  forces 
of  your  life.  Ah,  it  is  not  me  alone  that  you  must 
love,  not  me  alone,  but  the  love  1  have  for  you  :  love 
my  love !  I  am  not  beautiful,  I  am  not  worthy  of 
your  eyes,  I  am  a  humble  creature  in  the  shadow ; 
but  my  love  is  wonderful,  it  is  on  high,  on  high,  it  is 
alone,  it  is  sure  as  the  day,  it  is  stronger  than  death,  it 
can  work  miracles  ;  it  shall  give  you  all  that  you  ask. 
You  can  ask  more  than  you  have  ever  hoped. 

[She  draivs  him  to  her  heart,  raising  his  head. 

His  eyes  are,  closed,  his  lips  tight  set,  he  is  as 

pale   as   death,   drunk   and    exhausted   with 

emotion. 

Rise,  rise!  Come  nearer  to  my  heart ;  rest  <n  me. 
Do  you  not  feel  that  you  can  give  yourself  up  to  me  ? 
that  nothing  in  the  world  is  surer  than  my  breast  ? 
that  you  can  find  it  always?  Ah,  I  have  sometimes 
thought  that  this  certitude  might  intoxicate  you  like 
glory. 

[lie  kneels  before  her  with  uplifted  face  ;  she  with 


42  GIOCONDA 

both  hands  pushes  back  the  hair  to  uncover  his 

whole  forehead. 

Beautiful,  strong  forehead,  sealed  and  blessed  ! 
May  all  the  germs  of  spring  awaken  in  your  new 
thoughts ! 

[Trembling  she  presses  her  lips  to  his  forehead. 

Silently  he  stretches  out  his  arms  towards  the 

suppliant.     The  sunset  is  like  a  dawn. 


END  OF  THE  FIEST  ACT. 


THE    SECOND  ACT 

The  same  room,  the  same  hour  of  the  day.  A  cloudy 
and  changing  sky  is  seen  through  the  window. 

SCENE  I 

COSIMO  DALBO  is  seated  by  a  table,  on  which  he  rests 
his  elbows,  putting  his  hand  to  his  forehead,  grave 
and  thoughtful.  Lucio  SETTALA  is  on  foot,  rest- 
less and  agitated  ;  he  moves  about  the  room  uncer- 
tainly, giving  way  to  the  anguish  that  oppresses 

him. 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

Yes,  I  am  going  to  tell  you.  Why  should  I  hide 
the  truth  ?  From  you  !  I  have  had  a  letter,  I  have 
opened  it,  read  it.  . 

COSIMO  DALBO 
From  Gioconda  ? 


44  GIOCONDA 

Lucio  SETTALA. 
From  her. 

COSIMO  DALBO. 
A  love  letter  ? 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

It  burnt  iny  fingers. 

COSIMO  DALBO. 
Well? 

[He  hesitates.     In  a  voice  changed  by  emotion. 
You  still  love  her  ? 

Lucio  SETTALA. 
[JF^A  a  shudder  of  dread.]  No,  no,  no. 

COSIMO  DALBO. 

[Looking  into  the  depths  of  his  eyes.~\  You  no  longer 
love  her  ? 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

\_Entreatingly. ~\  Oh,  do  not  torture  me.     I  sufl'er. 

COSIMO  DALBO. 
But  what  is  it  then  that  distresses  you  ?  [A  pause. 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

Every  day,  at  an  hour  that  I  know,  she  waits  for 
me,  there,  at  the  foot  of  the  statue,  alone. 

[Another  pause.     The  two  men  seem  as  if  they 


GIOCONDA  45 

saw  before  them  something  strong  and  living, 
a  Will,  evoked  by  those  brief  words. 

COSIMO  DALBO. 

She  waits  for   you?     Where?     In   your   studio? 
How  could  she  get  in  ? 

Lucio  SETTALA. 
She  has  a  key  :  the  key  of  that  time. 

COSIMO  DALBO. 

She  waits  for  you  !     She  thinks,  she  desires,  then, 
that  you  should  still  belong  to  her  ? 

Lucio  SETTALA. 
You  have  said  it. 

COSIMO  DALBO. 
And  what  shall  you  do  ? 

Lucio  SETTALA. 
What  shall  1  do  ?  |  A  pause. 

COSIMO  DALBO. 
You  vibrate  like  a  flame. 

Lucio  SETTALA 
I  suffer. 


46  GIOCONDA 

COSIMO  DALBO. 
You  are  burning. 

Lucio  SETTALA. 
[Vehemently.]  No. 

COSIMO  DALBO. 

Listen.  She  is  terrible.  One  cannot  fight  against 
her  save  at  a  distance.  That  is  why  I  wanted  to  take 
you  with  me,  across  the  sea.  You  preferred  death  to 
the  sea.  Another  (you  know  who,  and  your  heart 
bleeds  for  her)  has  saved  you  from  death.  And  now 
you  can  live  only  for  her. 

Lucio  SETTALA 
It  is  true. 

COSIMO  DALBO. 

You  must  go  away,  fly  from  her 

Lucio  SETTALA. 
For  always  ? 

COSIMO  DALBO. 

For  some  time. 

Lucio  SETTALA. 
She  will  wait  for  me. 

COSIMO  DALBO. 
You  will  be  stronger. 


GIOCONDA  47 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

Her  power  will  have  increased.  She  will  have 
more  profoundly  impregnated  with  herself  the  place 
that  is  dear  to  me  for  the  work's  sake  that  was 
achieved  there.  I  shall  see  her  from  far  off,  like  the 
guardian  of  a  statue  into  which  I  put  the  most  vivid 
breath  of  my  soul. 

COSIMO  DALBO. 
You  love  her. 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

[Despairingly^  No.  I  do  not  love  her.  But 
think :  she  will  always  be  the  stronger :  she  knows 
what  conquers  and  what  binds  me ;  she  is  armed 
with  a  fascination  from  which  I  cannot  free  my  soul 
except  by  tearing  her  out  of  my  heart.  Must  I  try 

again  ? 

COSIMO  DALBO. 

Ah,  you  are  raving  ! 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

The  place  where  I  have  dreamed,  where  I  have 
worked,  where  I  have  wept  with  joy,  where  I  have 
cried  on  glory,  where  I  have  seen  death,  is  her 
conquest.  She  knows  that  I  cannot  keep  away  from 
it  or  renounce  it,  that  the  most  precious  part  of  my 


48  GIOCONDA 

substance  is  diffused  there :  and  she  waits  for  me, 

certain. 

COSIMO  DALBO. 

Does  she  then  exercise  an  inviolable  right  there? 
Can  no  one  forbid  her  entrance  ? 

Lucio  SETTALA. 
[IFz'iA  a  profound  emotion.]     Turn  her  out  ? 

COSIMO  DALBO. 

No  :  but  there  may  be  another  way,  less  hard,  the 
simp'est  way :  ask  her  for  the  key  which  she  has  no 

right  to  retain. 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

And  who  is  to  ask  her  for  it  ? 

COSIMO  DALBO. 

Any  one  of  us,  I  myself,  respectfully,  in  the  name 

of  necessity. 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

She  would  refuse,  she  would  look  upon  you  as  a 

stranger. 

COSIMO  DALBO. 

You  yourself  then. 

Lucio  SETTALA. 
I  ?    I  face  her  ? 


GIOCONDA  49 

COSIMO  DALBO. 
No,  write  to  her.  [A  pause. 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

[JFV^A  the  accent  of  absolute  impossibility. "\  I  cannot. 
And  it  would  all  be  in  vain. 

Cosmo  DALBO. 

But  there  is  another  way  :  leave  that  house,  clear 
out  everything,  take  everything  somewhere  else. 
You  will  thus  avoid  the  intolerable  sadness  of 
memory.  How  is  it  you  do  not  realise  that  change 
is  necessary,  if  your  life  is  to  renew  itself,  so  that  the 
companion  you  have  found  again  may  help  you  in 
your  work  ?  Would  you  have  her  sit  where  the 
other  had  been  ?  Would  you  have  her  always  see 
before  her  eyes  the  vision  of  that  horrible  evening? 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

[Smiling,  disheartened  and  bitter.]  Well,  yes,  you 
are  right :  we  will  leave  here,  we  will  go  somewhere 
else,  we  will  choose  a  beautiful  solitary  place,  we  will 
shake  off  the  dust  from  old  things,  open  all  the 
windows,  let  in  the  pure  air,  take  a  heap  of  clay  a 
block  of  marble,  set  up  a  monument  to  liberty. 

D 


50  GIOCONDA 

\He  breaks  off.      His  voice   becomes  singularly 

calm. 

One  morning,  Gioconda  will  knock  at  the  new  door  ; 
I  shall  open  to  her :  she  will  come  in :  without 
surprise  I  shall  say  to  her,  "  Welcome." 

[Unable  to  restrain  Ms  bitterness. 

Ah,  but  you  are  like  a  child  !  The  whole  thing  seems 
to  you  no  more  than  a  key.  Call  in  a  locksmith, 
change  the  lock,  and  I  am  saved. 

COSIMO  DALBO. 

[Tenderly  and  sadly.]  Do  not  be  angry.  At  first  I 
thought  you  had  simply  to  rid  yourself  of  an  intruder. 
Now  I  see  that  my  advice  was  childish. 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

[Imploringly.]     Cosimo,  my  friend,  do  understand 

me  ! 

COSIMO  DALBO. 

I  understand,  but  you  deny  it. 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

[Again  carried  away  by  excitement]  I  deny 
nothing  I  deny  nothing.  Would  you  have  me  cry 
to  you  that  I  love  her  ? 

[Looks  about  him  in  an  aimless  bewilderment. 


GIOCONDA  51 

[Passes  his  hand  across  his  jorehead  with  an 
air  of  suffering.  Lowers  his  voice. 
You  should  have  let  me  die.  Think,  if  I  who  was 
intoxicated  with  life,  if  I  who  was  frantic  with  strength 
and  pride,  if  I  wanted  to  die,  be  sure  I  knew  there 
was  an  insuperable  necessity  for  it.  Not  being  able  to 
live  either  with  or  without  her,  I  resolved  to  quit  the 
world.  Think :  I  who  looked  on  the  world  as  my 
garden,  and  had  every  lust  after  every  beauty  !  Be 
sure,  then,  I  knew  there  was  an  insuperable  necessity, 
an  iron  destiny.  You  should  have  let  me  die. 

COSIMO   DALBO. 
You  have  forgotten  the  divine  miracle,  cruelly. 

Lucio  SETTALA 

I  am  not  cruel.  Because  I  was  in  horror  of  that 
cruelty  towards  which  the  violence  of  evil  drew  me, 
because  I  would  not  trample  upon  a  more  than  human 
virtue,  because  I  could  not  endm-e  the  sweetness  of  a 
little  unconscious  voice  questioning  me,  because  I 
wished  to  keep  myself  from  the  worst  of  all  (do  you 
understand  ?)  I  made  my  resolve.  And  because  1  am 
in  horror  of  beginning  over  again,  therefore  I  hate 
myself;  because  to-day  I  am  like  one  who  has  taken 
a  narcotic  in  despair,  and  who  wakes  up  again,  after  a 


52  GIOCONDA 

sound  sleep,  and  finds  the  same  old  despair  by  his 
bedside. 

COSIMO  DALBO. 

The  same !  Arid  your  first  words  ai-e  still  in  my 
ears :  '*  I  know  nothing  now,  I  don't  remember,  I 
don't  want  to  remember  any  more."  You  seemed  as  if 
you  had  forgotten  all,  as  if  you  reached  out  after  some 
new  good  thing.  The  sound  of  your  voice  is  still  in 
my  ears  as  you  called  to  Beata's  mother,  getting  up 
hurriedly,  impatient,  as  if  with  an  ardour  that  permits 
no  delay.  I  still  see  the  way  you  looked  at  her,  when 
she  entered,  tremulous  as  hope.  And,  surely,  that 
night  you  must  needs  have  knelt  to  her,  and  she  must 
have  wept  over  you,  and  both  together  must  have  felt 
the  goodness  of  life. 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

Yes,  yes,  it  was  indeed  so  :  adoration  !  All  my  soul 
was  prostrate  at  her  feet,  knowing  all  that  is  divine  in 
her,  with  an  intoxication  of  humility,  with  a  fervour 
of  unspeakable  gratitude.  I  was  carried  away.  You 
spoke  of  the  ecstasy  of  light :  I  experienced  it  in  that 
moment.  Every  stain  was  wiped  out,  every  shadow 
cleared  away.  Life  had  a  new  splendour.  I  thought 
I  was  saved  for  ever.  \He  breaks  off. 


GIOCONDA  53 

COSIMO  DALBO. 
But  then? 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

Then  I  knew  that  there  was  something  else  that 
must  be  abolished  in  me :  the  force  that  flows  in- 
cessantly to  my  fingers,  as  if  to  reproduce  . 

COSIMO  DALBO. 
What  do  you  mean  ? 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

I  menn  that  I  should  perhaps  have  been  saved,  if  I 
had  forgotten  art  also.  Those  days,  there  in  my  bed, 
as  I  looked  at  my  feeble  hands,  it  seemed  to  me  in- 
credible that  I  should  ever  create  again ;  it  seemed  to 
me  as  if  I  had  lost  all  my  power.  I  felt  completely 
estranged  from  the  world  of  form  in  which  I  had 
lived  .  .  .  before  I  died.  I  thought:  "  Lucio  Settala, 
the  sculptor,  is  dead."  And  I  dreamt  of  becoming  the 
gardener  of  a  little  garden. 

[He  sits  down,  as  if  quieted,  half  closing  his  eyes, 

with  a  weary  air,  a  scarcely  visible  smile  of 

irony. 

To  prune  roses,  water  them,  pick  the  caterpillars  off 
them,  clip  the  box  with  shears,  train  the  ivy  up 
the  walls,  in  a  little  garden  sloping  to  the  waters  of 


54  GIOCONDA 

oblivion  ;  and  not  regret  that  one  has  left  on  the  other 

shore  a   glorious   park,    populous   with   laurels,   and 

cypresses,  and  myrtles,  and  marbles,  and  dreams.  You 

see  me  there,  happy,  with  shining  shears,  dressed  in 

twill. 

CcsiKo  DAL  BO. 

1  do  not  see  you. 

Lucio  SETTALA. 
It  is  a  pity,  my  friend. 

COSIMO  DALBO. 

But  who  forbids  your  return  to  the  great  park  ? 
You  can  return  to  it  by  the  alley  of  cypresses,  and 
find  your  tutelar  genius  at  the  end  of  the  way. 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

[Leaping  to  his  feet,  like  one  who  again  loses  self- 
control.]  Tutelar!  Ah,  you  seem  to  heap  one  word 
on  another,  like  bandages  on  lint,  for  fear  of  feeling 
the  pulsation  of  life.  Have  you  ever  put  your 
finger  on  an  open  artery,  a  torn  tendon  ? 

COSIMO  DALBO. 

Lucio,  your  anger  grows  on  you  every  minute. 
You  have  something  wry  and  acrid,  a  kind  of  ex- 
asperation which  hinders  you  from  being  just.  You 


GIOCONDA  55 

are  not  yet  out  of  convalescence,  yon  are  not  yet  well. 
A  sudden  shock  has  come  to  disturb  the  placid  work 
that  nature  was  carrying  out  in  you.  Your  new-born 
strength  festers.  If  nay  advice  were  worth  anything, 
I  would  bid  you  go  at  once  to  Bocca  d'Arno,  as  you 
proposed.  There,  between  the  woods  and  the  sea,  you 
will  find  once  more  a  little  calm,  and  you  will  think 
over  what  your  attitude  must  be  ;  and  you  will  find 
too  the  goodness  that  will  give  you  light. 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

Goodness !  goodness !  Do  you  think  then  that 
light  must  come  from  goodness  and  not  from  that 
profound  instinct  which  turns  and  hurries  my  spirit 
towards  the  most  glorious  images  of  life  ?  I  was 
born  to  make  statues.  When  a  material  form  has 
gone  out  of  my  hands  with  the  imprint  of  beauty, 
the  office  assigned  to  me  by  nature  is  fulfilled.  I 
have  not  exceeded  my  own  law,  whether  or  not  I 
have  exceeded  the  laws  of  right..  Is  it  not  really 
true  ?  Do  you  admit  it  ? 

COSIMO  DALBO. 
Proceed. 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

[Lowering  his  voiced]  The  sport  of  illusion  hus 
mated  me  with  a  creature  who  was  never  meant  for 


56  GIOCONDA 

me.  She  is  a  soul  of  inestimable  price,  before  whom 
I  kneel  and  worship.  But  I  urn  not  a  sculptor  of 
souls.  She  was  not  meant  for  me.  When  the  other 
appeared  before  me,  I  thought  of  all  the  blocks  of 
mai'ble  hidden  in  the  caves  of  far  mountains,  that  I 
might  arrest  in  each  of  them  one  of  her  motions. 

COSIMO  J)ALI?O. 

But  now  you  have  obeyed  the  commandment  of 
Nature,  in  creating  your  masterpiece.  When  I  saw 
your  statue  I  thought  that  you  were  free  from  her. 
You  have  perpetuated  a  frail  sample  of  the  species  in 
an  ideal  and  indestructible  type.  Are  you  not  there- 
fore satisfied  ? 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

[More  excitedly.  ~\  A  thousand  statues,  not  one ! 
She  is  always  diverse,  like  a  cloud  that  from  instant 
to  instant  seems  changed  without  your  seeing  it 
change.  Every  motion  of  her  body  destroys  one 
harmony  and  creates  another  yet  more  beautiful. 
You  implore  her  to  stay,  to  remain  motionless  ;  and 
across  all  her  immobility  there  passes  a  torrent  of 
obscure  forces,  as  thoughts  pass  in  the  eyes.  Do  you 
understand  ?  do  you  understand  ?  The  life  of  the 
eyes  is  the  look,  that  indefinable  thing,  more  expres- 
sive than  any  word,  than  any  sound,  infinitely  deep 


GIOCONDA  57 

and  yet  instantaneous  as  a  breath,  swifter  than  a 
flash,  innumerable,  omnipotent :  in  a  word,  the 
look.  Now  imagine  the  life  of  the  look  diffused 
over  all  her  body.  Do  you  understand  ?  The  quiver 
of  an  eyelid  transfigures  a  human  face  and  expresses 
an  immensity  of  joy  or  sorrow.  The  eyelashes  of  the 
creature  whom  you  love  are  lowered :  the  shadow 
encircles  you  as  the  waters  encircle  an  island  :  they  are 
raised :  the  flame  of  summer  burns  up  the  world. 
Another  quiver :  your  soul  dissolves  like  a  drop  of 
water;  another :  you  are  lord  of  the  universe.  Imagine 
that  mystery  over  all  her  body!  Imagine  through 
all  her  limbs,  from  the  forehead  to  the  sole  of  the 
foot,  that  flash  of  lightning,  like  life  !  Can  one  chisel 
the  look  ?  The  ancients  made  their  statues  blind. 
Now,  imagine,  her  whole  body  is  like  the  look. 

[.4  pause.  He  looks  about  him  suspiciously, 
in  fear  of  being  heard.  He  comes  nearer 
to  his  friend,  who  listens  with  increasing 
emotion. 

\  have  told  you:  a  thousand  statues,  not  one.  Her 
beauty  lives  in  every  block  of  marble.  I  felt  this, 
with  an  anxiety  made  up  of  regret  and  fervour,  one 
day  at  Carrara,  when  she  was  with  me,  and  we  saw, 
coming  down  the  mountain -side,  those  great  oxen  with 
yokes,  drawing  the  marble  in  waggons.  An  aspect  of 


58  GIOCONDA 

her  perfection  was  erclosed  for  me  in  each  of  those 
formless  masses.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if  there  went  out 
from  her  towards  the  raw  material  a  thousand  life- 
giving  sparks,  as  from  a  shaken  torch.  We  had  to 
choose  a  block.  J  remember,  it  was  a  calm  day.  The 
marble  shone  in  the  sun  like  the  eternal  snows.  We 
heard  from  time  to  time  the  rumbling  of  the  mines 
that  tore  asunder  the  bowels  of  the  silent  mountain. 
I  shall  never  forget  that  hour,  though  I  were  to  die 
over  again.  She  went  into  the  midst  of  that  concourse 
of  white  cubes,  stopping  before  each.  She  leant  over, 
observed  the  grain  attentively,  seemed  to  explore  the 
inner  veins,  hesitated,  smiled,  passed  on.  To  my  eyes 
her  garments  were  no  covering.  There  was  a  sort  of 
divine  aflinity  between  her  flesh  and  the  marble  that 
she  leant  over  until  her  breath  touched  it.  A  con- 
fused aspiration  seemed  to  rise  to  her  from  that  inert 
whiteness.  The  wind,  the  sun,  the  grandeur  of  the 
mountains,  the  long  lines  of  yoked  oxen,  and  the 
ancient  curve  of  the  yokes,  and  the  creaking  of  the 
waggons,  and  the  cloud  that  rose  from  the  Tirreno, 
and  the  lofty  flight  of  an  eagle,  everything  I  saw 
exalted  my  spirit  into  a  limitless  poetry,  intoxicated 
with  a  dream  that  I  had  never  equalled.  Ah, 
Cosimo,  Cosimo,  I  have  dared  to  throw  away  a  life  on 
which  there  gleams  the  glory  of  such  a  memory. 


GIOCONDA  59 

When  she  laid  her  hand  on  the  marble  that  she  had 
chosen,  and  turning  to  me  said  "  This,"  all  the  moun- 
tains, from  root  to  summit,  breathed  beauty. 

[An  extraordinary  fervour  warms  his  voice  and 

quickens  his  gestures.     The  listener  is  carried 

away  by  it,  and  makes  no  sign. 

Ah,  now  you  understand  !  You  will  never  ask  me 
again  if  I  am  satisfied.  Now  you  knoAv  how  furious 
must  be  my  impatience  when  I  think  that  she  is 
there  now,  alone,  at  the  foot  of  the  Sphinx,  awaiting 
me.  Think,  the  statue  rises  above  her,  immobile, 
immutable,  in  its  immunity  from  all  sorrow  ;  and  she 
is  there,  grieving,  and  her  life  is  ebbing  away,  and 
something  of  her  perishes  continually.  Delay  is  death, 
But  you  do  not  know,  you  do  not  know.  .  .  . 

[lie  speaks  as  if  about  to  confide  a  secret. 

COSIMO  DALBO. 
What 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

You    do    not    know    that    I    had    begun   another 

statue  ? 

COSIMO  DALBO. 
Another  ? 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

Yes,   it  was   left  unfinished,   sketched  out  in  the 
clay.     If  the  clay  dries,  all  is  lost. 


60  GIOCONDA 

COSIMO  DALBO. 
Well? 

Lucio  SETTALA. 
I  thought  it  was  lost. 

[An  irresistible  smile  shines    in  his   eyes.     His 

voice  trembles. 

It  is  not  lost ;  it  still  lives.     The  last  touch  of  the 
thumb  is  there,  still  living. 

[He  makes  the  gesture  of  moulding,  instinctively. 

COSIMO  DALBO 
How? 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

She  knows  the  ways  of  the  art,  she  knows  how  the 
clay  is  kept  soft  Once  she  used  to  help  me.  fehe 
herself  damped  the  cloths 

COSIMO  DALBO. 

So  she  thought  of  keeping  the  clay  moist  while 
you  were  dying ! 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

Was  not  that  too  a  way  of  opposing  death  ?  Was 
not  that  too  an  act  of  faith,  admirable  ?  She  pre- 
served my  work. 

COSIMO  DALBO. 

While  the  other  preserved  your  life. 


GIOCONDA  61 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

[Gloomily,  lowering  his  forehead,  without  looking  at 
his  friend,  in  an  almost  hard  voice.]  Which  of  the 
two  is  worth  more  ?  Life  is  intolerable  to  me,  if  it 
was  only  given  back  with  such  a  dragging  weight  on 
it.  I  have  told  you :  you  should  have  let  me  die. 
What  greater  renunciation  can  I  make  than  that  I 
have  made  ?  Only  death  could  stay  the  rush  of  desire 
that  drives  my  whole  being,  fatally,  towards  its  own 
particular  good.  Now  I  live  again  :  I  recognise  in 
myself  the  same  man,  the  same  force.  Who  shall 
judge  me  if  I  follow  out  my  destiny? 

COSIMO  DALBO. 

[Terrified,  taking  him  by  the  arm  as  if  to  restrain 
him.']  But  what  will  you  do  ?  Have  you  made  up 
your  mind  ? 

[Struck  by  the  sudden   terror  in  the  voice  and 
gesture  of  his  friend,  Lucio  hesitates. 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

[Flitting  his  hands  through  his  hair  feverishly^ 
What  shall  I  do?  What  shall  I  do  ?  Do  you 
know  a  more  cruel  torture?  I  am  dizzy;  do 
you  understand  ?  If  I  think  that  she  is  there, 
and  waiting  for  me,  and  the  hours  are  passing, 
and  my  strength  being  lost,  and  my  ardour  burning 


62  GIOCONDA 

itself  away,  dizziness  clutches  hold  of  my  soul,  and  I 
am  in  fear  that  I  shall  be  drawn  there,  perhaps 
to-night,  perhaps  to-morrow.  Do  you  know  what 
that  dizziness  is  ?  Ah,  if  I  could  reopen  the  wound 
that  they  have  closed  for  me  ! 

COSIMO  DALBO. 

[Trying  to  lead  him  to  wards  the  window.]     Be  calm, 
be  calm,  Lucio.     Hush  !  I  think  I  hear  the  voice.   .  . 

Lucio  SETTALA. 
[Starting.]     Silvia's  ?  [He  turns  deathly  pale. 

COSTMO  DALRO. 
Yes.     Be  calm.     You  are  in  a  fever. 

[He  touches  his  forehead.  Lucio  leans  on  the 
window-sill,  as  if  all  his  strength  is  leaving 
him. 

SCENE  II. 

SILVIA    SETTALA   enters  with  FRANCESCA  DONI.     The 
latter  has  her  arm  round  her  sister's  waist. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

Oh,  Dalbo,  are  you  still  here  ? 

[She  does  not  see  Lucio's  face,  which  he  has  turned 
to  the  open  air. 


GIOCONDA  63 

COSIMO  DALBO. 

^Composing  his  countenance,  and  greeting  FUAN- 
CESCA.]  Lucio  kept  me. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
Had  he  a  great  deal  to  tell  you  ? 

COSIMO  DALBO. 

He  always  has  a  great  deal  to  tell  me,  sometimes  too 
much.  And  he  is  tired. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

Did  he  tell  you  that  we  are  going  to  Bocca  d'Arno 
on  Saturday? 

COSIMO  DALBO. 
Yes.      I  know. 

FRANCESCA  DONT. 
Have  you  ever  been  to  Bocca  d'Arno  ? 

COSIMO  DALBO. 

No,  never.  I  know  the  country  about  Pisa :  San 
Rossore,  Gombo,  San  Pietro  in  Grado ;  but  I  never 
went  as  far  as  the  mouth  of  the  river.  I  know  that 
the  coast  is  most  lovely. 

[SILVIA  gazes  fixedly  at  her  husband,  ivho  remains 
leaning  motionless  against  the  window-sill. 


64  GIOCONDA 

FRANCESUA  DONI. 

Delicious  at  this  time  of  the  year :  a  low,  open 
coast,  with  fine  sand  :  sea,  river,  and  woods  :  the  scent 
of  resin  and  sea-grass :  sea-gulls,  nightingales.  You 
ought  to  come  often  and  see  Lucio  while  he  is  there. 

COSIMO  DALBO. 
With  pleasure. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

We  can  put  you  up. 

\_She    leaves    her  sister   and    goes  towards    her 
husbattd,  with  her  light  step. 

FKANCESCA  DONI. 

Our  mother  has  a  simple  house  there,  but  it  is 
large,  white  inside  and  outside,  in  a  thicket  of 
oleanders  and  tamarinds,  and  there  is  an  Empiie 
spinet,  which  used  to  belong — fancy  to  whom  ? — to  a 
sister  of  Napoleon,  the  Duchess  of  Lucca,  the  terrible, 
bony  Elisa  Baciocchi :  a  spinet  that  sometimes  wakes 
and  weeps  under  Silvia's  fingers  ;  and  there  is  a  boat, 
if  the  Napoleonic  relic  doesn't  tempt  you,  a  lovely 
boat,  as  white  as  the  house. 

[SILVIA  leans  in  silence  against  Lucio's  shoulder, 
as  if  expectant.     lie  remains  absorbed 


GIOCONDA  65 

COSIMO  DALBO. 

To  live  in  a  boat,  on  the  water,  aimlessly,  there 
is  nothing  so  refreshing.  I  have  lived  like  that  for 
weeks  and  weeks. 

FKANCESCA  DONI. 

We  ought  to  put  our  convalescent  in  a  boat,  and 
confide  him  to  the  good  sea. 

SILVIA  SETTALA 

[Touching  her  husband  lightly  on  the  shoulder :] 
Lucio  !  \lle  starts  and  turns.]  What  are  you  doing  ? 
We  are  here.  Here  is  Francesca. 

[lie  looks  his  ivij'e  in  the  face,  hesitatingly  ;  then 
tries  to  smile. 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

There  is  a  shower  coming.  J  was  looking  for  the 
first  drops :  the  odour  of  the  earth.  .  .  . 

[He  turns  again  towards  the  window,  and  holds 
out  his  open  hands ;  Ihey  tremble  visibly, 

FHANCESCA  DONI. 
April  either  weeps  or  laughs. 


66  GIOCONDA 

Lucio  SETTALA. 
Oh,  Francesca,  how  are  you  ? 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 
Quite  well.     And  you,  Lucio  ? 

Lucio  SETTALA. 
Quite  well,  quite  well. 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 
Are  you  going  away  on  Saturday  ? 

Lucio  SETTALA. 
[Looking  at  his  wife,  in  a  dreamy  ^ra^/.]  Where  '? 

FKANCESCA  DON/. 
Why,  to  Bocca  d'Arno. 

Lucio  SETTALA. 
Ah,  yes,  true.  My  memory  is  quite  gone. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
Do  you  not  feel  well  to-day  ? 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

Yes,  yes,  quite  well.     The  weather  ujxsets  me  a 
little ;  but  I  feel  well,  pretty  well. 


GIOCONDA  67 

[In  the  tone  with  which  he  pronounces  these 
simple  words  there  is  an  excess  of  dissimula- 
lation,  which  gives  him  the  strangeness  of  a 
madman.  It  is  evident  that  the  attention  of 
the  three  bystanders  is  intolerable  to  him. 
Are  you  going,  Cosimo  ? 

COST  sio  DALBO. 

Yes,  I  am  going.     It  is  time. 

[He  prepares  to  go. 

Lucio  SETTALA. 
I  will  go  with  you  as  far  as  the  garden-gate. 

[He  leaves  the  window  and  goes  towards  the  door, 
anxiously. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
Are  you  going  without  your  hat  ? 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

Yes,  I  am   hot.      Don't  you  feel  how   heavy  tho 
air  is  ? 

[He  pauses  on  the  threshold,  waiting  for  his 
friend.  A  sharp  pain  suddenly  goes  through 
all  hearts,  striking  every  one  silent. 


68  GIOCONDA 

COSIMO  DALBO. 
Au  revoir. 

[He  bows  in  a  constrained  ivay,  and  goes  out 
with  Lucio.  SILVIA  bends  her  head,  knitting 
her  brows,  as  if  she  is  thinking  out  some 
resolution.  Then  it  seems  as  if  she  is  lifted 
on  a  sudden -wave  of  energy. 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 
Have  you  seen  Gaddi  ? 

SILVIA  SEITALA. 
Not  yet.     He  has  not  come  to-day. 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 
Then  you  don't  know. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
What  ? 

FHANCESCA  DONI. 
What  he  has  done  ? 

SILVIA  SETTALA 
No 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 

He  went  to  see  Dianti. 


GIOCONDA  69 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
[With  restrained  emotion.]  To  see  her!     When  ? 

FRANOESCA  DONI. 
Yesterday. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

And  you  have  seen  him  ? 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 
Yes,  I  met  him.     He  told  me.   .  . 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
Speak,  speak  ! 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 

He  went  to  see  her  yesterday,  about  three.  He 
sent  in  his  name.  He  was  admitted  at  once.  She 
received  him  smilingly,  bowed,  never  said  a  word, 
stood  before  him,  waiting  for  the  old  man  to  speak, 
listened  to  him  quietly  and  respectfully.  You  can 
imagine  what  he  might  have  said  to  persuade  her  to 
give  back  the  key,  to  give  up  any  further  attempts, 
and  not  trouble  a  peace  bought  back  at  the  price  of 
blood,  and  what  sorrow!  When  he  had  finished  she 
merely  asked  :  "  Did  Lucio  Settala  send  you  to  me?" 
On  his  reply  in  the  negative,  she  added  very  firmly  : 
"  Pardon  me,  but  I  cannot  admit  that  any  one  but  ho 
has  the  right  of  asking  what  you  have  asked." 


70  GIOCONDA 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

[Turning  pale  and  drawing  herself  up  as  if  for  a 
contest.]  Ah,  that  is  her  last  word.  Well,  there  is 
some  one  else  who  has  an  equal  right  and  who  will 
insist  on  her  right.  We  shall  see. 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 

[Startled.]  What  are  you  thinking  of  doing, 
Silvia? 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
What  is  necessary. 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 
What  then  ? 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

Seeing  her,  facing  her,  in  the  place  where  she  is  an 
intruder.  Do  you  understand  ? 

FIIANCESCA  DONI. 
You  would  go  there  ? 

SILVIA  SETTALA 

Yes,  I  am  going  there.  I  know  her  time.  You 
yourself  know  it.  I  will  wait  for  her.  She  shall  see. 
We  shall  meet  face  to  face  at  last. 


GIOCONDA  71 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 
You  will  not  do  it. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
Why  not  ?     Do  you  think  I  have  not  the  courage  ? 

FRAKCESCA  DONI. 
I  entreat  you,  Silvia  ! 

SILVIA  SBTTALA. 
Do  you  think  I  tremble  ? 

FRANCESCA  DONI, 
I  entreat  you  ! 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

Oh,  be  sure,  I  shall  not  lower  my  eyes,  I  shall  not 
faint.  You  ought  to  know  me  by  now  ;  I  have  gone 
through  more  than  one  ordeal. 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 

I  know,  I  know.  Nothing  is  too  much  for  you. 
But  think  :  to  go  there,  after  all  that,  in  the  very 
place  where  the  horrible  thing  happened,  there,  alone, 
face  to  face  with  that  woman,  who  has  done  you  so 
much  injury. 


72  GIOCONDA 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

Well  ?  What  of  that  ?  Have  I  once — once,  Fran- 
cesca ! — failed  to  accomplish  what  seemed  to  me 
necessary  ?  Tell  me,  have  you  ever  known  me  refuse 
a  burden  ?  From  what  torture  have  I  drawn  back  ? 
I  have  faced  many  other  sorrows,  as  you  know.  You 
are  afraid  that  my  heart  will  fail  me  if  I  set  foot  where 
he  fell  ?  But  I  had  the  coxirage  then  to  look  at  him 
through  the  crack  of  the  door,  when  he  lay  on  his  bed 
of  death,  and  there  was  no  one  by  me  to  support  me  » 
and,  before  I  was  allowed  to  go  to  his  bedside,  the 
surgeon's  steel  and  the  blood-stained  lint  passed 
through  my  hands. 

FBANCESCA  DONI. 

Yes,  yes,  true  :  your  strength  is  great.  Nothing 
is  too  much  for  you.  But  think ;  this  is  not  the  same 
thing.  It  is  not  the  same  thing  to  go  there,  and  to 
find  yourself  face  to  face  with  a  woman  whom  you  do 
not  know,  capable  of  anything,  obstinate,  impudent. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

I  have  no  fear  of  her.  What  she  does  is  base. 
Because  she  thinks  me  weak  and  submissive,  therefore 
she  is  bold  ;  because  I  have  so  long  remained  silent 
and  aloof,  therefore  she  thinks  she  can  once  more  get 


GIOCONDA  73 

the  better  of  me.  But  she  is  wrong.  Then  all  I 
cared  for  was  lost,  all  resistance  was  useless.  Now  I 
have  won  it  back,  and  I  defend  it. 

FRAXCESCA  DONI. 

My  God  !  you  are  throwing  yourself  into  a  hand  to 
hand  contest.  And  if  she  resists  ? 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

How  resists  ?  I  have  my  right.  I  can  turn  her 
out. 

FKANCESCA  DONI, 

Silvia,  Silvia,  my  sister,  I  entreat  yon ;  wait  a  few 
days  longer,  think  it  over  a  little  before  you  do  this. 

Do  not  be  rash. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

Ah,  you  speak  well,  you  who  are  happy,  you  who 
are  safe,  you  whose  life  is  secure  and  with  nothing  to 
threaten  your  peace.  Wait,  think  over !  But  do  you 
know  the  crisis  in  which  I  find  myself  to-day  ?  Do  you 
know  what  I  am  fighting  for  ?  For  my  own  self  and 
for  Beata,  for  existence,  for  the  light  of  my  eyes.  Do 
you  see?  I  cannot  again  go  through  a  martyrdom  in 
which  all  my  nerves  were  torn  to  pieces;  in  which 
every  torture  was  tried  on  me.  I  have  given  sorrow 
all  I  can  give  it ;  I  have  felt  the  hard  iron  on  my 


74  GIOCONDA 

neck  and  on  my  wrists;  at  the  day's  end  my  sleep  was 
taken  away  by  the  horror  of  the  day  to  come,  in  which 
I  should  have  to  go  on  living,  and,  in  order  to  live, 
squeeze  out  my  heart  drop  by  drop  when  it  seemed 
empty  of  everything.  Ah,  you  speak  well,  you ! 
When  you  smile  in  your  home  your  smile  returns  to 
you  in  a  hundred  rays,  as  if  you  lived  in  a  crystal. 
For  me,  smiling  was  one  sorrow  the  more  ;  under  it, 
I  clenched  my  teeth ;  but  Beata  never  saw  a  tear  in 
my  eyes.  That  I  might  fulfil  the  promise  of  her 
name,  when  there  was  not  a  fibre  in  me  that  was  not 
wrenched  asunder,  my  hands  were  always  held  out  to 
her  with  flowers.  I  could  not  begin  over  again.  I  would 
rather  go  away  myself,  and  find  a  little  quiet  seashore 
somewhere,  and  lie  down  there  with  Beata  and  let  the 
sea  take  us. 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 

[Throwing  her  arms  around  her  sisters  neck,  and 
kissing  Jier.~]  What  are  you  saying  ?  what  are  you 
saying  ?  You  ought  to  be  afraid  of  nothing  any  longer. 
Does  he  not  love  you  ?  Have  you  not  seen  all  his  love 
come  back  ?  That  is  what  matters ;  all  the  rest  is 
nothing. 

[SILVIA  closes  her  eyes  for  a  few  instants,  and  the 
illusion  brightens  her  face. 


GIOCONDA  75 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

Yes,  yes,  I  have  seen  his  love  come  back.  It 
seems  .  .  .  How  could  I  doubt  that  voice?  When 
I  am  not  there,  he  calls  me,  he  looks  for  me ;  he 
needs  me  ;  it  seems  as  if  I  am  to  lead  his  steps. 

[She  shakes  herself,  withdraws  from  her  sister's 

arms,  and  becomes  anxious  again. 

But  to-day.  .  .  .  Did  you  see  him  ?  did  you  look  at  him  ? 
To-day  be  is  not  like  he  was  yesterday.  A  sudden 
change.  .  .  .  Did  you  look  at  him  when  he  was  at  the 
window,  leaning  out  ?  Did  you  hear  the  sound  of  his 
words  ?  Did  you  see  how  his  arm  trembled  when  he 
stretched  it  out  ?  Ah,  tell  me  if  you  too  felt  that 
something  had  happened,  that  something  had  disturbed 

him. 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 

He  is  still  convalescent.  Think  ;  a  mere  nothing  is 
enough  to  disturb  him,  the  air,  the  weather  .  .  . 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

No,  no,  it  is  not  that.  And  did  you  not  see  ? 
Cosimo  Dalbo  too  seemed  to  be  making  an  efibrt  to 
hide  some  shadow.  My  eyes  never  deceive  me. 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 
No,  it  did  not  strike  me.     He  was  talking  with  me. 


76  GIOCONDA 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

[JFifA  increasing  agitation .]  But  Lucio  went  down 
to  see  him  out,  and  he  has  not  yet  come  back.  Or 
perhaps  he  went  across  to  the  other  side. 

[Goes  to  the  window,  and  looks  through  the  cur- 
tains. 

Ah,  he  is  still  there,  at  the  gate,  talking/  talking.     He 
seems  beside  himself.  [Lifts  her  eyes  to  the  cfotids. 

The  thunder  is  coming.  [Looks  out  again,  very  intently. 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 
Call  him ! 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

[Turning,  as  if  seized  by  a  terrible  thought.]  I  am 
sure  of  it,  I  am  sure  of  it. 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 
What  are  you  thinking  of  now  ? 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

[Pausing,  and  pronouncing  the  words  distinctly/,  pale 
but  resolute.]  Lucio  knows  that  she  is  waiting  for 
him. 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 

He  knows  ?     How  ? 


GIOCONDA  77 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
There  is  no  doubt,  there  is  no  doubt. 

FKANCESCA  DONI. 
You  imagine  it. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
I  feel  it ;  I  am  sure  of  it. 

FEANCESCA  DONI. 
But  how  ? 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

It  was  bound  to  come  ;  she  was  bound  to  find  out 
the  way  one  day  or  another.  How  ?  A  letter, 
perhaps.  He  has  received  a  letter. 

FK.ANCESCA  DONI. 
And  you  were  not  on  the  watch? 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
[Disdain fully.]  Even  that? 

FKANCESCA  DONI. 
But  perhaps  you  are  mistaken. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
I  am  not  mistaken.     After  the  old  man's  visit,  she 


78  GIOCONDA 

wrote,  Delay  is  no  longer  possible  now,  not  a  day, 
not  an  hour.  You  see  the  danger.  Though,  he  may 
have  come  back  to  me  with  all  his  soul,  though  he 
may  have  broken  with  her  entirely,  though  he  may 
have  gone  back  to  another  life,  another  happiness,  do 
you  not  feel  what  might  still  be  the  fascination  for  him 
of  a  woman  who  says,  obstinate  and  certain  :  "  I  am 
here,  I  wait  "  ?  To  know  that  she  is  there,  that  she 
is  waiting  there  every  day,  that  nothing  can  dishearten 
her.  Do  you  see  the  danger  ?  If  Lucio  knew  this  morn- 
ing that  she  is  waiting  for  him,  he  must  know  to-night, 
and  from  my  lips,  that  she  waits  for  him  no  longer. 

[An    indomitable   energy    strengthens  and   lifts 

her  ivhole  being. 
He  shall  know  it  to-night ;  I  promise  him. 

[She  stretches  out  her  hand  toivards  the  windov), 

with  the  gesture  of  one  taking  an,  oath. 
Will  you  come  with  me  ? 

FllANCESCA    DONI. 

[Anxious   and  entreating.^  Silvia,  Silvia,  think  for 
one  moment  !     Think  what  you  are  doing  ! 

SILVIA  SKTTALA. 

I  do  not  ask  your  aid.     I  only  ask  you  to  come  with 
me  as  far  as  the  door.     For  the  rest,  I  alone  suffice  ; 


GIOCONDA  79 

it  is  necessary  that  I  should  be  alone.     Will  you  ? 
What  time  is  it  ? 

[Turns  to  look  at  the  time ;    goes  towards   the 
table. 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 

[Stopping  her]  I  entreat  of  you !  Listen  to  me, 
Silvia  !  My  heart  tells  me  that  no  good  can  come  of 
what  you  are  wanting  to  do.  Listen  to  your  sister ! 
I  entreat  of  you. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

[With  a  gesture  of  impatience.]  Don't  you  know  the 
game  I  am  playing  ?  Let  me  be.  I  am  going  alone. 
[Bends  over  the  table,  and  looks  at  the  time.]  Four 
o'clock.  I  have  not  a  moment  to  lose.  Is  your 
carriage  there  ? 

[The  rain   falls  suddenly   on   the    trees   in   the 
garden. 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 

See  how  it  is  pouring  !  Don't  go  out !  Put  it  off 
till  to-morrow.  Come,  listen.  [Tries  to  draw  her 
towards  her]  Wait  at  least  till  it  stops  raining. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

I  have  not  a  minute  to  lose.  I  must  be  there 
before  her ;  she  must  find  me  there  as  if  in  my  own 


8o  GIOCONDA 

house.     Do  you  understand  ?      Let  me  go.     Quick, 
my  hat,  my  cloak,  my  gloves.     Giovanna  ! 

[/She  goes  into  the  next  room  calling  to  her  maid. 
FRANCESCA  DONI,  terrified,  goes  towards  the 
window,  on  which  the  rain  is  beating, 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 

My  God  !  my  God  !  [Looks  into  the  garden  ;  calk  : 
Lucio  !  Lucio ! 

[Tarns  towards  the  door  through  which  her  sister 
has  gone  out. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

[Coming  back,  out  of  breath.^  I  am  ready.  I  left 
Beata  there  in  tears.  She  wanted  to  go  out  with  me. 
Stay,  please  ;  go  and  comfort  her.  I  will  go  alone.  I 
shall  take  your  carriage.  A  u  revoir. 

[Is  about  to  kiss  her  sister, 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 
You  are  going,  then  ?     You  have  decided  ? 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
I  am  going. 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 

I  will  go  with  you. 


GIOCONDA  81 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
Let  us  go. 

[Involuntarily  she  turns  and  looks  around  the 
room,  as  if  to  embrace  everything  that  is  in  it 
in  one  look.  The  curtains  tremble,  the  rain 
increases.  She  breathes  in  the  damp  fragrance 
that  enters  at  the  window.  For  one  instant 
the  strung  bow  of  her  will  slackens. 
The  odour  of  the  earth  .  .  . 

[She  shivers,  as  she  suddenly  catches  sight  of 
Lucio,  who  appears  on  the  threshold,  fever- 
ishly, -with  bare  head,  his  hair  and  his  clothes 
wet  with  rain.  They  look  at  one  another. 
An  interval  of  weighty  silence, 

Lucio  SETTALA. 
[7?i  a  hoarse  voice.]  You  are  going  out  2 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
Yes,  I  am  going  out. 

Lucio  SETTALA. 

How  pale  you  are !    [SILVIA  puts  her  hand  to  her 
throat.]  Where  are  you  going  ?     It  is  a  deluge. 

[lie  touches  his  dripping  hair. 


82  GIOCONDA 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

I  have  to  go  out.  I  shall  not  be  long.  Beata  is 
in  there,  crying  because  she  wants  to  come  with  me. 
Go  and  comfort  her,  tell  her  that  perhaps  I  will  bring 
her  back  something  beautiful. 

[Lucio  suddenly  takes  her  hands  and  looks  her 
fixedly  in  the  eyes. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

[Mistress  of  herself,  with  a  clear  and  firm  accent] 
What  is  it,  Lucio  ? 

\He   casts   down  his   eyes.     She   withdraws  her 
hands,    shaking    his    as   if   in   a  farewell 
greeting.     The  temper  of  her  will  rings  out  in 
her  vivid  voice. 
Au  revoir  !     Come,  Francesca.     It  is  time. 

[She  goes  out  rapidly,  followed  by  her  sister. 
Lucio  SETTALA  remains  with  bowed  head, 
staggering  under  a  thought  that  transfixes 
him. 


END    OF    THE    SECOND    ACT. 


THE  THIRD  ACT 

A  high  and  spacious  room,  lighted  by  a  glass  roof, 
covered  with  dark  awnings.  In  the  wall  at  ih 
back  there  is  a  rectangular  opening,  somewhat 
larger  than  a  door,  leading  into  the  sculptor's  studio. 
On  the  architrave  are  some  fragments  of  the  frieze 
of  the  Parthenon;  against  the  two  sides  are  two 
large  winged  figures,  "  clothed  with  the  wind,"  the 
Nike  of  Samothrace  and  the  other  Nike  sculptured 
by  Pceonius  for  the  Doric  temple  of  Olympia 
consecrated  to  Zeus ;  the  opening  is  covered  by  a 
red  curtain. 

In  the  left  wall  there  is  a  door,  hidden  by  a  rich 
and  heavy  portiere  ;  in  the  left,  a  little  door  is 
hidden  by  curtains.  Wide  divans,  covered  ivith 
cloths  and  cushions,  surround  the  room.  The 
figures  are  arranged  carefully,  as  if  to  induce 
meditation  and  reverie  :  a  bunch  of  corn  in  a  copper 
vase  stands  before  the  Eleusinian  bas  relief  of 


84  GIOCONDA 

Demeter ;  a  little  bronze  Pegasus  on  a  pedestal  of 
"  verde  antico  "  stands  before  the  Ludovisi  Medusa. 
The  sentiment  expressed  by  the  aspect  of  the  place 
is  very  different  from  that  which  softens  the  aspect 
of  the  room  in  the  other  house,  over  against  the 
mystic  hill.  Here  the  choice  and  analogy  of  every 
form  reveals  an  aspiraticm  toivards  a  carnal,  vic- 
torious, and  creative  life.  The  two  divine  mes- 
sengers seem  to  stir  and  widen  the  close  atmosphere 
incessantly  with  the  rush  of  their  immense jlight. 


SCENE  I. 

SILVIA  SETT  ALA  stands  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  having 
laid  down  her  hat,  cloak,  and  gloves.  She  seems 
trying  to  remember  the  things  about  her,  almost  to 
renew  her  acquaintance  with  them,  to  re-establish  a, 
communion  with  them,  not  to  feel  estranged  from 
them.  She  represses  her  anguish  under  her  sister's 
eyes.  FKANCESCA  DONI  is  seated,  because  her  knees 
tremble  and  her  heart  beats  too  loud. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
[Looking  about  herJ\    It  is  strange  ;  it  seems  larger. 


GIOCONDA  85 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 
What  ? 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

The  room.      It  doesn't  seem  the  same. 

[She  looks  about  her,  as  if  breathing  an  unfamiliar 
air.     An  interval  of  silence. 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 
[Listening.]  Did  you  shut  the  door  ? 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
Yes,  I  shut  it. 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 

We  shall  hear  her  open  it. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

Are  you  afraid  ?     It  is  not  time  yet.     In  a  minute 

you  must  go. 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 
Where  ? 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

Will    you  wait    for    me    in    the    carriage,    in  the 

street  ? 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 

No,  it  is  impossible.     I  want  to  be  here,  to  be  near 
you.     Could  I  not  hide  myself  ? 


86  GIOCONDA 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
Hide  yourself,  here  ?     No.     I  must  be  alone. 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 
Have  pity  on  me  !     I  shall  die  of  suspense. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

Wait.     There  ought  to  be  a  secret  door  here. 

[Guided  by  memory,  she  goes  towards  the  wall 
where  there  is  the  hidden  door  ;  looks,  finds  it, 
opens  it.     A  wave  of  light  falls  over  her. 
Do  you  see!     It  goes    from    here    into    the  model's 
room,  then  into  a  corridor.     At  the  end  of  the  corridor 
there  is  a  door,  which  leads  to  the  Mugnone.     Will 
you  go  out  that  way  ? 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 

Yes,  but  let  me  stay  in  the  room   or  the  corridor 
and  wait.     I  will  wait  till  you  call. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
You  promise  to  wait  till  I  call  ? 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 
Yes,  I  promise. 


GIOCONDA  87 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

Do  not  fear.  See,  there  is  the  sun  on  the 
window. 

[Both  look  out  through  the  half  open  door.  The 
inner  light  shines  on  their  faces.  A  luminous 
streak  extends  over  the  floor. 

FKANCESCA  DONI. 

It  is  not  raining  now.     Look  at  all  the  primroses 

on  the  roadside. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

Go  and  wait  on  the  roadside,  in  the  open  air.     Go. 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 

There  is  an  old  sick  horse,  with  his  Jegs  in  the 
water.  Do  you  see  1  And  the  swallows  skim  across 
it.  I  think  .  .  . 

\She  starts  and  turns  suddenly,  gazing  at  the 
motionless  folds  of  the  portiere. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
What  is  it  ? 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 

I  thought  I  heard  .  .  . 

[Both  listen. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
No,  you  are  mistaken.     It  is  still  early.     And  then 


88  GIOCONDA 

the  door  on  the  stairs  makes  a  great  noise  when  it 
closes.     Did  you  not  hear  it  when  we  came  in  ?     The 

walls  tremble. 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 

[Imploringly."]'    Silvia  ! 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
What  is  it  now  ? 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 

Listen.  There  is  still  time.  Come  away,  come 
away  at  least  for  to-day  !  Try,  at  least.  She  will 
know  you  have  been  here.  We  will  speak  to  the 
caretaker  again.  You  ought  to  leave  some  sign  here, 
forget  a  glove,  for  instance.  She  will  understand, 
she  will  nob  return. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

A  glove  enough  ?  Ah,  how  easy  everything  is  for 
your  heart ! 

[She  looks  round  her  again,  with  a  secret  despair. 
There  is  nothing  left  of  me,  here. 

[The  sister  remains  by  the  half  open  door,  her 
figure  partially  lit  up  by  the  vivid  reflection. 
Silvia  moves  some  paces  into  the  room.     An 
interval  of  silence. 
Everything  seems  larger,  higher,  darker. 


GIOCONDA  89 

FRANSESCA  DONI. 

It  is  the  shadow  that  deceives  you.  There  is  not 
much  light.  Draw  back  the  awning  over  the  sky- 
light. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

No,  it  is  better  like  this. 

\_She  looks  in  every  corner,  as  if  seeking  a  trace. 
Tell  me  ... 

[Her  voice  chokes  with  emotion. 

That  night  they  came  for  you,  and  you  hurried 
here.  You  were  here  at  the  very  beginning  .  .  . 

[Hesitates. 
Where  was  he  ?    Do  you  remember  exactly  where  ? 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 

There,  in  the  studio,  under  the  statue.  No,  do  not 
go! 

[SILVIA  turns  towards  the  red  curtain  that  hangs 
between  the  two  Victories.  At,  her  feet,  like  a 
dividing  line,  stretches  the  thin  zone  of  the 
sun. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

[In  a  low  voice.]     The  statue  is  there. 

FKANCESCA  DONI. 
Do  not  go  ! 


90  GIOCONDA 

[SILVIA   remains  for  some    instants    motionless 
and  silent    before   the   closed   curtain,  from 
which  she  is  separated  by  the  shining  zone. 
Do  not  go ! 

[SILVIA  steps  across  the  sunlight,  almost  violently, 
as  if  to  overcome  an  obstacle ;  with  a  rapid 
movement  she  raises  the  curtain,  slips  between 
the  folds,  and  disappears.  The  curtain  falls 
behind  her,  heavy  and  thick.  There  are  a 
few  instants  of  sileiwe,  in  which  nothing  is 
heard  but  the  rapid  breathing  of  the  sister. 
Suddenly,  within  the  purple  depths,  appears 
the  ivhileface  of  Silvia,  ivhich  seems  irradiated 
ivith  the  light  of  the  masterpiece.  Her  bare 
hands,  as  they  put  aside  the  curtains,  seem 
to  shine  against  the  depths  of  colour.  Her 
eyes  are  intent,  widened  by  wonder,  dazzled, 
not  by  a  vision  of  death,  but  by  an  image  of 
perfect  life.  The  ivater  gathers  tremulously 
in  her  eyes.  Two  marvellous  tears  form  little 
by  little,  shine,  and  slowly  run  down  her 
cheeks.  Before  they  reach  her  mouth  she  stops 
them  with  her  fingers,  diffuses  them  over  her 
face,  as  if  to  bathe  in  lustral  dew  ;  for  it  is 
not  by  the  remembrance  or  the  trace  of  human 
bloodshed  that  she  is  moved,  but  by  the  sight 


GIOCONDA  Q  I 

of  a  thing  of  beauty,  solitary  and  free.  She 
has  received  the  supreme  gift  of  beauty :  a 
truce  to  anguish,  a  pause  to  fear.  The 
sublime  lightning -flash  of  joy  has  shone 
through  her  wounded  soul  for  an  instant, 
rendering  it  crystalline  as  tears.  These  tears 
are  b^lt  the  soul's  mute  and  ardent  offering 
before  a  masterpiece. 
Silvia,  Silvia,  you  are  weeping. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

[In  a  subdued  voice,  with  a  gesture  of  silence.]  Hush  ! 
[She  moves  away  from  the  curtain,  asking  in  a 

subdued  voice : 
Have  you  seen  ?  have  you  seen  ? 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 

[Misunderstanding,  with  a  start. \  Who  ?    Her  ?    Is 
she  there  ? 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
No,  the  statue. 

[The  sister  nods  her  head,  with  a  gesture  ^pressing 
rapt  admiration.     The  sound  of  a  heavt/  door 
closing  is  heard.     Both  start. 
She  is  here.     Go,  go. 


92  GIOCONDA 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 

[Holding  out  her  arms  towards  her  with  a  last  agonised 
entreaty.]  Oh,  my  sister! 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

[Recovering  her  former  energy.]  Go  !     Do  not  fear. 
[She  pushes  her  sister  out  through  the  door,  and 
closes  it.     The  zone  of  sun  disappears ;  the 
room  returns  to  an  even  shadow. 


SCENE  II. 

SILVIA  SETTALA  is  standing  with  her  face  turned 
towards  the  door,  her  eyes  fixed,  almost  rigid  in  ex- 
pectation. Through  the  profound  silence  is  heard 
distinctly  the  turning  of  the  key  in  the  lock. 
SILVIA'S  attitude  does  not  change.  A  hand  lifts 
the  portiere.  GIOCONDA  DIANTI  enters,  closing  the 
door  behind  her.  At  first  she  does  not  perceive,  the 
adversary,  since  she  comes  from  the  light  into  the 
shadow  and  a  thick  veil  covers  her  whole  face. 
When  she  perceives  her,  she  stops,  with  a  choked  cry. 
Both  remain  for  some  instants  facing  one  another 
without  speaking. 


GIOCONDA  93 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

[With  a  firm  and  clear  accent,  but  without  resentment 
or  menace.]  I  am  Silvia  Settala. 

[Her  rival  is  silent,  still  veiled.     A  pause. 
And  you  ? 

GIOCONDA  DIANTI. 

[In  a  low  voice.]  Do  you  not  know,  Signora  ? 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

[Stitt  restraining  herself.]  I  know  only  that  you  have 
entered  here,  as  into  a  place  that  belongs  to  you.  You 
find  me  here,  as  in  my  own  house.  One  of  us  two, 
therefore,  usurps  the  right  of  the  other;  one  of  us 
two  is  the  intruder.  Which  ?  [A  pause. 

I  perhaps? 

GIOCONDA  DIANTI. 

[Always  hidden  under  the  veil,  and  in  a  low  voice,  as 
if  to  lessen  her  audacity.]  Perhaps. 

[SiLViA  SETTALA  turns  paler  and  staggers  a  little, 
as  if  she  had  received  a  blow. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

[Resolutely,  quivering  with  disdain.]  Well,  there  is  a 
woman  who  has  drawn  a  man  into  her  net  with  the 
worst  allurements  ;  who  has  torn  him  away  from  the 


94  GIOCONDA 

peace  of  home,  the  nobility  of  art,    the   beauty  of  a 
dream  which  he  had  nourished   for  years  with   the 
flowers  of  his  force  ;  who  has  dragged  him  into  a  turbid 
and  violent  delirium,  where  he  has  lost  all  sense  of  good- 
ness and  justice  ;  who  has  inflicted  on  him  the  sharpest 
torments  that  the  cruelty  of  a   torturer   sick   with 
ennui  could  desire  ;  who  has  exhausted  and  withered 
him  up,  keeping  a  perverse  fever  continually  alight  in 
his  veins ;  who  has  rendered  life  intolerable  to  him  ; 
who  has  armed  his  hand   and  turned  it  against  his 
own  life ;  who  in  short,  has  known  that  he  was  lying 
wounded  to  death  on  a  far-off  bed,  for  days  and  days, 
whilea  ceaseless  fight  went  on  about  him  against  death  ; 
and  who  has  not  had  remorse,  nor  pity,  nor  shame,  but 
has  gone  back  to  the  sinister  place  before  the  blood 
was  wiped  off  the  floor,  meditating  another  attack  upon 
her  prey,  awaiting  him  again  at  the  journey's  end, 
calculating   one    by  one  the   effects  of  her  temerity 
and   of  her  tenacity,  promising  herself  the  pleasure 
of  another  ruin.     There  is  a  woman  who  has  done 
this,    who    has    said :     "  A    strong    and    noble    life 
flourished  freely  in  the  world  ;  I  have  seized  it,  bent 
it  back,  beaten  it  down,  then  shattered  it  at  a  blow.     I 
thought  I   had  destroyed   it   for  ever.      And   lo!  it 
flourishes  again,  is  renewed,  re-arises    can  put  forth 
fresh  flowers  !    About  it  the  wounds  close,  the  pains 


GIOCONDA  95 

are  calmed,  hope  springs  up  again,  joy  can  smile  ! 
Shall  I  endure  this  wrong  ?  Shall  I  let  myself  be  thus 
deluded  ?  No,  I  will  begin  again,  I  will  hold  on,  I 
will  overcome  all  resistance,  I  will  be  implacable." 
There  is  a  woman  who  has  promised  this  to  herself, 
who  has  gripped  her  will  like  an  axe,  who  is  pre- 
pared to  deliver  fresh  blows  smiling.  Do  you  know 
her  ?  She  has  entered  here  with  her  face  covered,  she 
has  spoken  in  a  dull  voice,  she  has  let  fall  a  cold  word, 
calculating  always  on  her  own  audacity  and  on  the 
other's  submissiveness.  Do  you  know  her  ? 

GIOCONDA  DIANTI. 

[Without  changing  her  manner.]  She  whom  I  know 
is  different.  Only  because  she  is  sad  in  your  presence, 
does  she  speak  in  a  low  voice.  She  respects  the  great 
and  sorrowful  love  that  has  given  you  life;  she  admires 
the  virtue  that  exalts  you.  While  you  were  speaking, 
she  understood  that  it  was  only  in  order  to  comfort 
an  unutterable  despair  that  your  words  had  created  a 
figure  so  different  from  the  real  person.  There  is 
nothing  implacable  in  her  ;  but  she  herself  obeys  a 
power  that  may  be  implacable. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

[Bitter  and  hau<jhtyJ\  I  know  that  you  are  practised 
in  all  tongues. 


96  GIOCONDA 

GlOCONDA  DiANTI. 

Of  what  avail  is  this  harshness  ?  Your  first  words 
had  another  sound  ;  and  it  seemed,  when  you  asked 
me  a  question,  that  you  wanted  simply  to  know  the 

truth. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

And  what  then  is  your  truth  ? 

GIOCONDA  DIANTI. 

The  truth  that  matters,  between  us,  is  one  only  : 
truth  of  love.  You  know  it.  But  I  fear  to  wound. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
Do  not  fear  to  wound. 

GIOCONDA  DIANTI. 

The  woman  against  whom  you  made  such  accusa- 
tions was  ardently  loved,  and — suffer  me  to  say  it ! — 
with  a  glorious  love.  She  did  not  abase  but  exalt  a 
strong  life.  And  since  the  last  voice  that  she  heard, 
a  few  hours  before  the  terrible  deed  was  accomplished, 
the  last  was  of  love,  she  believes  that  she  is  still 
loved.  And  this  is  the  truth  that  matters. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
\JBlindly.]  She  is  wrong,  she  is  wrong.   .  .  You  are 


GIOCONDA  97 

wrong !  He  loves  you  no  longer,  he  loves  you  no 
longer;  perhaps  he  has  never  loved  you.  His 
was  not  love  but  a  poisoning,  but  sharp  slavery,  mad- 
ness, and  thirst.  When  he  suffered  on  his  pillow, 
remembrance  passed  through  his  eyes  from  time  to 
time  like  a  flash  of  terror.  Weeping  at  my  feet,  he 
has  blessed  the  blood  that  was  poured  out  for  his 
ransom.  He  does  not  love  you,  he  does  not  love 
you! 

GIOCONDA  DIANTI. 

Your  love  cries  out  like  a  drowning  man. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

He  does  not  love  you  !  You  have  been  a  gad-fly 
to  him,  you  have  made  him  frantic,  you  have  driven 
him  to  his  death. 

GIOCONDA  DIANTI. 

Not  I,  not  I,  have  driven  him  to  his  death,  but 
you  yourself.  Yes,  he  wished  to  die,  that  he  might 
cast  off  a  fetter,  but  not  that  which  bound  him  to  me  : 
another,  yours,  that  which  was  set  upon  him  by  your 
virtue  or  your  rule,  and  which  made  him  suffer 

intolerably. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

Ah,  there  is  nothing  that  you  dare  not  travesty  ! 

o 


98  GIOCONDA 

From  him,  from  his  own  mouth,  in  an  hour  when  his 
whole  soul  had  risen  up  into  the  light,  from  him  I 
heard  it :  "  If  violence  is  enough  to  break  a  yoke,  let 
it  be  blessed !  "  From  him  I  heard  it,  when  all  his 
soul  opened  again  to  the  truth. 

GIOCONDA  DIANTI. 

But  here,  a  few  hours  before  he  gave  way  to  the 
horrible  thought,  here  (all  these  things  are  witnesses 
to  it)  he  said  to  me  the  most  ardent  and  the  sweetest 
words  of  all  his  love ;  here  he  once  more  called  me 
life  of  his  life,  here  he  told  me  once  more  his  dream 
of  forgetfulness,  of  liberty,  of  art,  of  joy.  And  here 
he  told  me  of  the  insupportableness  of  his  yoke,  the 
inevitable  weight  of  goodness,  more  cruel  than  any 
other,  and  the  horror  of  daily  suffering,  the  repug- 
nance at  returning  to  the  house  of  silence  and  tears, 
the  repugnance  at  length  become  unconquerable. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
No,  no.     You  lie. 

GIOCONDA  DIANTI. 

To  escape  that  anguish,  one  evening  when  all 
seemed  to  him  sadder  and  more  silent  than  ever, 
he  sought  death. 


GIOCONDA  99 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
You  lie,  you  He !     I  was  far  away. 

GIOCONDA  DIANTI. 

And  you  accuse  me  of  having' inflicted  an  infamous 
torment  upon  him,  of  having  been  his  torturer  !  Ah, 
your  hands,  above  all,  your  hands  of  goodness  and 
pardon,  prepared  for  him  every  night  a  bed  of  thorn, 
on  which  he  could  not  lie  down.  But,  when  he 
entered  here  where  I  awaited  him  as  one  awaits 
the  creating  God,  he  was  transformed.  Before  his 
work  he  recovered  strength,  joy,  faith.  Yes,  a  con- 
tinual fever  burned  in  his  blood,  kept  alight  by  me 
(and  this  is  all  my  pride);  but  the  fire  of  that  fever 
has  fashioned  a  masterpiece. 

[Points  towards  her  statue,  hidden  by  the  curtain. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
It  is  not  the  first ;  it  will  not  be  the  last. 

GIOCONDA  DIANTI. 

Truly,  it  will  not  be  the  last ;  because  another  is 
ready  to  leap  forth  from  its  covering  of  clay,  another 
has  palpitated  already  under  the  life  giving  thumb, 
another  is  half-alive,  and  waits  from  moment  to 


ioo  GIOCONDA 

moment  for  the  miracle  of  art  to  draw  it  wholly  foith 
to  the  light.  Ah,  you  cannot  understand  this  im- 
patience of  matter  to  which  the  gift  of  perfect  life 
has  been  promised ! 

[SILVIA  SETTALA  turns  towards  the  curtain,  takes 
a  few  steps,  sloidy,  as  if  involuntarily,  as  if 
in  obedience  to  a  mysterious  attraction. 
It  is  there ;  the  clay  is  there.  That  first  breath 
that  he  infused  into  it,  I  have  kept  alive  from  day  to 
day,  as  one  waters  the  furrow  where  the  seed  lies 
deep.  I  have  not  let  it  perish.  The  impress  is 
there,  intact.  The  last  touch,  which  his  feverish 
hand  set  upon  it  at  the  last  hour,  is  visible  there, 
energetic  and  fresh  as  yesterday,  so  powerful  that 
my  hope  in  the  midst  of  all  the  agony  of  sorrow 
is  set  there  with  a  seal  of  life,  and  takes  strength 
from  it. 

[SILVIA  SETTALA  pauses  in  front  of  the  curtain,  as 

before,  and  remains  motionless  and  silent. 
Yes,  it  is  true,  you  watched  by  the  bedside  of  the 
dying  man,  intent  upon  a  ceaseless  strife  to  win  him 
back  from  death ;  and  for  this  be  envied,  and  for  this 
be  praised  to  all  eternity.  You  had  strife,  agitation, 
elibrt :  you  had  to  accomplish  a  thing  which  seemed 
superhuman,  and  which  intoxicated  you.  I,  shut 
out,  far  off,  in  solitude,  could  only  gather  and  bind  up, 


GIOCONDA  101 

knitting  my  will  together,  my  sorrow  in  a  vow.  My 
faith  was  equal  to  yours  ;  truly,  it  was  leagued  with 
yours  against  death.  The  last  creative  spark  of  his 
genius,  of  the  divine  fire  that  is  in  him,  I  have  not 
let  it  go  out,  I  have  kept  it  alive,  with  a  religious  and 
uninterrupted  vigilance.  Ah,  who  can  say  to  what 
height  the  preserving  force  of  such  a  vow  may 
attain? 

[SILVIA  SETTALA  is  about  to  turn  violently,  as  if 

to  reply,  but  restrains  herself. 

I  know,  I  know :  it  is  simple  and  easy  enough,  what 
I  have  done  ;  I  know  :  it  is  no  heroic  effort,  it  is  the 
humble  duty  of  a  menial.  But  it  is  not  the  act  that 
matters.  What  matters  is  the  spirit  in  which  the 
act  is  accomplished ;  the  fervour  of  it  is  all  that 
matters.  Nothing  is  more  sacred  than  the  work  that 
begins  to  live.  If  the  spirit  in  which  I  have  watched 
over  it  can  reveal  itself  to  your  soul,  go  and  see ! 
That  the  work  may  go  on  living,  my  visible  presence 
is  needful.  Realising  this  necessity,  you  will  under- 
stand how  in  replying  "  Perhaps "  to  a  question,  I 
wished  to  respect  a  doubt  which  might  be  in  you, 
but  which  was  not  in  me,  which  is  not  in  me.  You 
cannot  feel  at  home  here  as  in  your  own  house.  This 
is  not  a  house.  Household  affections  have  no  place 
here;  domestic  virtues  have  no  sanctuary  here. 


102  GIOCONDA 

This  is  a  place  outside  laws  and  beyond  common 
rights.  Here  a  sculptor  makes  his  statues.  He  is 
alone  here  with  the  instruments  of  his  art.  Now  I 
am  nothing  but  an  instrument  of  his  art.  Nature 
has  sent  me  to  him  to  bring  him  a  message,  and  to 
serve  him.  I  obey ;  I  await  him  to  serve  him  still. 
If  he  entered  now,  he  could  take  up  the  interrupted 
work  which  had  begun  to  live  under  his  fingers.  Go 
and  see  ! 

[SILVIA  SETTALA  stands  before  the  curtain,  with- 
out advancing.  An  increasing  shiver  shakes 
her  whole  body,  betraying  her  inner  agitation; 
while  the  words  of  her  rival  become  more  and 
more  sharp  and  stinging,  definite,  and  at  last 
hostile.  Suddenly  she  turns,  panting,  im- 
petuous, resolved  upon  the  last  defe/ice. 


SILVIA  SETTALA. 

No.  It  is  useless.  Your  words  are  too  clever. 
You  are  practised  in  all  tongues.  You  transform 
into  an  act  of  love  and  faith  what  is  only  an  act  of 
policy  or  of  treachery.  The  work  that  was  interrupted 
should  have  perished.  With  the  same  hand  that  had 
impressed  the  sign  of  life  upon  the  clay,  with  the 
same  hand  he  grasped  the  weapon  and  turned  it 


GIOCONDA  103 

against  his  heart.  He  did  nofc  doubt  that  he  had  set 
the  deepest  of  gulfs  between  himself  and  his  work. 
Death  has  passed  there,  and  has  severed  every  bond. 
What  was  interrupted  should  be  lost.  Now  he  is 
born  again,  he  is  a  new  man,  he  aspires  towards 
other  conquests.  In  his  eyes  there  is  a  new  light ; 
his  strength  is  impatient  to  create  other  forms.  All 
that  is  behind  him,  all  that  is  on  the  other  side  of  the 
shadow,  has  no  longer  any  power  or  value.  What 
does  it  matter  to  him  that  an  old  piece  of  clay  should 
fall  into  dust  ?  He  has  forgotten  it.  He  will  find 
fresher  pieces,  into  which  to  infuse  the  breath  of 
his  new  birth,  and  to  model  into  the  image  of  the 
idea  that  now  inflames  him.  Away  with  the  old 
clay  !  How  could  you  profess  to  think  that  you  were 
necessary  to  his  art  ?  Nothing  is  necessary  to  the 
man  who  creates.  All  converges  in  him.  You  say 
that  Nature  sent  you  to  him  to  bear  him  a  message. 
Well,  he  has  received  it,  he  has  understood  it,  and  he 
has  responded  to  it  with  a  sublime  expression.  What 
other  could  he  derive  from  you  ?  What  other  could 
you  give  him  ?  It  is  not  given  to  man  to  attain  twice 
the  same  summit,  to  accomplish  twice  the  same 
prodigy.  You  are  left  there,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
shadow,  far  off,  alone,  on  the  old  earth.  He  goes 
towards  the  new  earth  now,  where  he  shall  receive 


104  GIOCONDA 

other  messages.     His  strength  seems  virgin,  and  the 
beauty  of  the  world  is  infinite. 

GIOCONDA  DIANTI. 

[Taken  aback  by  the  unexpected  vigour  which  repels 
her,  becoming  more  acrid,  more  haughty  than  ever,  and 
ivith  an  air  of  defiance.]  I  am  living  and  am  here ;  and 
he  has  found  in  me  more  than  one  aspect,  and  the 
word:,  still  intoxicate  me  that  he  said  when  he  spoke 
to  me  of  his  vision,  different  every  morning  when  I 
come  before  him.  Up  to  yesterday,  certainly,  he  did 
not  know  that  I  was  waiting  for  him  ;  and  his  uncon- 
sciousness has  deceived  you.  But  to-day  he  knows. 
Do  you  understand  ?  He  knows  that  I  am  here,  that 
I  await  him.  This  morning  a  letter  told  him,  a  letter 
which  came  into  his  hands,  which  he  has  read.  And 
I  am  certain — do  you  understand  ? — I  am  certain 
that  he  will  come.  Perhaps  he  is  on  the  way,  perhaps 
he  is  near  the  door.  Shall  we  wait  for  him? 

[An  extraordinary  change  comes  over  the  face  of 
Silvia.  It  seems  as  if  something  strange  and 
horrible  enters  into  her.  She  is  like  one 
suddenly  caught  in  the  coils,  writhing  in 
the  fascination  of  the  serpent,  blindly.  The 
ancient  fatality  of  deceit  suddenly  assails 
the  soul  of  the  pure  woman,  conquers  and 


GIOCONDA  105 

contaminates  it.  At  the  last  words  of  (he  enemy 
she  breaks  into  an  unexpected  laugh,  bitter, 
atrocious,  jwovocative,  that  renders  her  un- 
recognisable. Gioconda  Dianti  seems  over- 
come by  it. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

Enough,  enough.  Too  many  words.  The  game 
has  lasted  too  long.  Ah,  your  certainty,  your  pride! 
But  how  could  you  believe  that  I  should  have  come 
here  to  contest  the  way  with  you,  to  forbid  your 
entrance,  to  face  your  audacity,  if  I  had  not  had  a 
certainty  far  more  sound  than  yours  to  warrant  me  ? 
I  know  your  letter  of  yesterday,  it  was  shown  to  me, 
I  know  not  if  with  more  astonishment  or  disgust. 

GIOCONDA  DIANTI. 
[Overcome.]  No,  it  is  not  possible  ! 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

Yes,  it  is  so.  As  for  the  answer.  I  bring  it.  Lucio 
Settala  has  lost  the  memory  of  what  has  been,  and 
asks  to  be  left  in  peace.  He  hopes  that  your  pride 
will  prevent  you  from  becoming  importunate. 


io6  GIOCONDA 

GlOCONDA  DlANTI. 

[Beside  herself.]  He  sends  you?  he  himself  ?     It  is 
his  answer  ?  his  ? 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

His,  his.     I  would  have  spared  you  this  harshness 
if  you  had  not  forced  me.     Will  you  go  now  ? 

GIOCONDA  DIANTI. 

[Her  voice  hoarse  with  rage  and  shame.]  I  am  turned 
out? 

[Fury  suffocates  her,  and  gives  her  a  frantic 
vigour.  The  vindictive  and  devastating  wild 
beast  seenis  to  awaken  in  her.  Through  her 
flexible  and  powerful  body  passes  the  same 
force  which  contracts  the  homicidal  muscles  of 
feline  animals  in  ambush.  The  veil,  which 
she  has  kept  on  her  face  like  a  dark  mask, 
renders  more  formidable  the  attitude  of  one 
ready  to  do  injury  in  any  way  and  with  any 
weapon. 

Turned  out  ? 

[SILVIA  SETTALA  stands  convulsed  and  livid 
before  the  furious  woman,  and  it  is  not  the 
spectacle  of  that  fury  which  terrifies  her,  but 


GIOCONDA  107 

something  which  she  sees  within  herself ,  some- 
thing horrible  and  irreparable  :  her  lie. 
Ah,  you  have  brought  him  to  this  !  How  ?  how  ? 
Binding  the  soul  like  the  wound  with  cotton-wool  ? 
doctoring  him  with  your  soft  hands?  He  is  un- 
made, finished,  a  useless  rag.  I  understand ;  now  I 
understand.  Poor  thing  !  poor  thing  !  Ah,  why  is 
he  not  dead,  rather  than  the  survivor  of  his  soul  ? 
He  is  finished,  then,  a  poor  beggar  whom  you  lead  by 
the  hand  in  the  empty  streets.  All  is  destroyed, 
all  is  lost.  He  will  never  lift  his  head  again,  his  eye 
is  darkened. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

[Interrupting  her.]  Be  silent,  be  silent !  He  is  liv- 
ing and  strong ;  never  had  he  such  light  in  himself. 
God  be  praised  ! 

GIOCONDA  DIANTI. 

[Frantically,]  It  is  not  true.  I,  I  was  his  strength, 
his  youth,  his  light.  Tell  him !  Tell  him  !  He  has 
become  old  ;  from  to-day  he  is  limp  and  soulless.  I 
carry  away  with  me  (tell  him  !)  all  that  was  most  free, 
ardent,  and  proud  in  him.  The  blood  that  he  poured 
out  there,  under  my  statue,  was  the  last  blood  of  his 
youth.  What  you  have  re-infused  into  his  heart  is 


io8  GIOCONDA 

without  flame,  is  weak,  is  vile.  Tell  him  !  I  carry 
away  with  me  to-day  all  that  was  his  power  and  his 
pride  and  his  joy  and  his  all.  He  is  finished.  Tell 
him  ! 

[Fury  blinds  and  suffocates  her.  It  is  as  if  she 
is  invaded  by  a  turbid  destructive  will,  as  by 
a  demon.  All  her  being  contracts  in  the 
necessity  of  accomplishing  an  immediate  act 
of  destruction.  A  sudden  thought  precipitates 
that  instinct  towards  an  aim. 

And  that  statue  which  is  mine,  which  belongs  to  me 

which  he  has  made  out  of  the   life  that  I  have  shed 

from  me  drop  by  drop,  that  statue  which  is  mine.   .   . 

[She  rushes  like  a  wild  beast  towards  the  closed 

curtain,  raises  it  and  passes  through. 
.  .  .  well,  1  will  shatter  it,  I  will  cast  it  down  ! 

(SILVIA  SETTALA  utters  a  cry,  and  rushes  fortvard 
to  prevent  the  crime.  Both  disappear  behind 
the  curtain.  The  rapid  breathing  of  a  brief 
struggle  is  heard. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

[Crying  out.]  No,  no,  it  is  not  true,  it  is  not  true  ! 
I  lied  ! 

[The  despairing  words  are  covered  by  the  sound  of 
a  mass  that  inclines  and  falls,  the  fracture  of 


GIOCONDA  109 

the  falling  statue  ;  then  folloivs  another  lacer- 
ating cry  from  Silvia,  torn  by  ayony  from 
her  very  vitals. 


SCENE  IV. 

FRANCESCA  DONI  appears,  mad  with  terror,  running 
towards  the  cry,  which  she  recognises  ;  while  GIO- 
CONDA DIANTI  is  seen  between  the  curtains,  still 
veiled,  in  the  altitude  of  one  who  has  committed  a 
murder  and  seeks  to  escape. 

FEANCESCA  DONI. 

Assassin !  Assassin  ! 

[She  stoops  to  succour  her  sister,  while  the  other 

rushes  out. 

Silvia,  Silvia,  my  sister,  my  sister  !  What  has  she 
done  to  you,  what  has  she  done  to  you  ?  Ah,  the 
hands,  the  hands.  .  .  . 

[Her  voice  expresses  the  horror  of  one  who  sees 
something  frightful, 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
Take  me  away  !     Take  me  away  1 


no  GIOCONDA 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 

My  God,  my  God  !  They  were  underneath  !  My 
God !  They  are  crushed  !  Water  !  water  !  There  is 
none  here.  Wait. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

Ah,  what  agony  !  I  cannot  bear  it :  I  am  dying. 
Take  me  away ! 

[She  appears  bettveen  the  red  curtains,  her  face 
inexpressibly  contracted  by  agony,  while 
her  sister  bends  to  support  her  two  hands 
wrapped  in  a  piece  of  wet  cloth,  taken  from 
the  clay,  through  which  the  Mood  oozes. 
What  agony  !  I  cannot  hear  it  any  longer. 

[She  is  about  to  faint,  when  all  at  once  Lucio 
SETTALA  rushes  into  the  room  like  a  madman. 
She  trembles,  fixing  on  him  her  great  eyes  full 
of  tears,  in  which  her  despairing  soul  dies. 
You,  you,  you  ! 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 

[Still  supporting  the  two  poor  crushed  hands  that 
drench  the  cloth  in  which  the  incurable  wreck 
is  hidden. 

Support  her,  support  her  !     She  is  falling. 

[Lucio  SETTALA  supports  the  poor  bleeding  creature, 


GIOCONDA  in 

almost  fainting,  in  his  arms.  But,  before 
losing  consciousness,  she  turns  her  glazing 
eyes  towards  the  curtains  as  if  to  indicate  the 
statue. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

\In  a  dying  voice.~\  It  ...  is  safe. 


END  OF  THE  THIRD  ACT, 


THE  FOURTH  ACT 

A  ground  floor  room,  white  and  simple,  with  two  side 
walls  making  an  angle,  almost  entirely  open  to  the 
light,  which  comes  through  a  sort  of  large  window, 
after  the,  manner  of  a  tepidarium.  The  blinds  are 
raised,  and  through  the  window-panes  can  be  seen 
oleanders,  tamarinds,  rushes,  pines,  golden  sands 
dotted  tvith  dead  seaweed,  the  sea  calm  and  dotted 
with  lateen  sails,  the  peace/id  mouth  of  the  Arno, 
beyond  the  river  the  wild  thickets  of  Gombo,  the 
Cascine  di  San  Rossore,  the  far  off 'marble  mountain 
of  Carrara. 

A  door,  leading  to  the  interior,  is  on  the  third  side.  By 
the  side  of  the  door,  on  a  bracket,  is  the  Lady  with 
t/te  bunch  of  flowers,  the  famous  figure  of  Andrea 
del  Verrocchio,  a  neiv  guest,  come  from  the  other 
house,  like  a  faithful  companion,  whose  beautiful 
hands  are  always  flawless,  as  they  make  a  graceful 


GIOCONDA  113 

gesture  towards  the  heart.  On  the  other  side  is  an 
old  spinet,  of  the  time  of  Elisa  Baciocchi,  Duchess 
of  Lucca,  with  its  case  of  dull  wood  inlaid  with 
bright  wood,  borne  by  little  gilded  Cariatides  in 
the  Empire  style,  with  its  four  pedals  united  in  the 
form  of  a  small  harp. 

It  is  an  afternoon  in  September.  The  smile  of 
vanishing  summer  seems  to  lay  an  enchantment 
over  everything.  In  the  deserted  room  the  soul  of 
music  sleeping  in  the  forgotten  instrument  makes 
itself  felt,  as  if  the  hidden  strings  were  touched  by 
the  calm  rhythm  of  the  neighbouring  sea. 


SCENE  I. 

SILVIA  SETTALA  appears  on  the  threshold,  from  the 
inner  room ;  she  pauses ;  takes  several  steps 
towards  the  window  ;  looks  into  the  distance,  looks 
about  her  with  infinitely  sad  eyes.  In  her  way  of 
moving  there  is  a  sense  of  something  wanting, 
calling  up  a  vague  image  of  clipped  wings,  a 
vague  sentiment  of  strength  humbled  and  shorn, 
of  nobility  brought  low,  of  broken  harmony.  She  is 
dressed  in  an  ash-coloured  gown,  with  a  hem  of 

H 


114  GIOCONDA 

black,  like  a  thread  of  mourning.  Long  sleeves 
hide  her  arms  without  hands,  ivhich  she  some- 
times lets  drop  by  her  side,  and  sometimes  sets 
together,  drawn  a  little  back,  as  if  to  hide  them 
in  the  folds,  with  a  movement  of  shame  and 
sorrow. 

From  outside,  betiveen  the  thick  oleanders,  appears  a 
girlish  figure,  LA  SlRENETTA,  half  fairy  and 
half  beggar  girl,  peering  in.  She  glides  towards 
the  window  loith  a  furtive  step,  holding  up  in  one 
hand  a  fold  of  her  apron  filled  with  seaiceed, 
shells,  and  star-fish. 

SILVIA  SKTTALA. 

[Catching  sight  of  her,  and  going  towards  her  with  a 
smile.]     Oh,  la  Sirenetta!    Conie,  come. 

LA    SlRENETTA. 

[Coming forward  to  the  window.]  Do  you  remember 
me? 

[She  remains  outside  so  that  her  face  is  seen 
through  the  shimmer  of  the  glass,  which  seems 
to  continue  about  her  the  incessant,  tremulous 
radiance  of  the  sea.  She  is  young,  slender, 
grace/id  ;  her  yelloiv  hair  is  in  disorder,  her 


GIOCONDA  115 

face  the  colour  of  ruddy  gold,  her  teeth 
whiti  as  the  bones  of  the  cuttle-fish,  her  eyes 
humid  and  sea-green,  her  neck  long  and  thin, 
with  a  necklace  of  shells  about  it ;  in  her 
whole,  person  something  inexpressibly  fresh 
and  glancing,  which  makes  one  think  of  a 
creature  impregnated  with  sea-silt,  dipped  in 
the  moving  waters,  coming  out  of  the  hiding- 
places  of  the  rocks.  Her  petticoat  of  striped 
white  and  blue,  torn  and  discoloured,  falls 
otdy  just  below  the  knees,  leaving  her  legs 
bare  ;  her  bluish  apron  drips  and  smells  of 
the  brine  like  a  filter  ;  her  bare  feet,  in 
contrast  with  the  brown  colour  that  the  sun 
has  given  herjlesh,  are  singidarlij  pallid,  like 
the  roots  of  aquatic  plants.  And  her  voice  is 
limpid  and  childish  ;  and  some  of  the  ivords 
that  she  speaks  seem  to  light  up  her  ingenuous 
face  with  a  mysterious  happiness. 
Do  you  remember  me,  pretty  lady  ? 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
I  remember  you  ;  I  remember  you. 

LA    SlRENETTA. 

Do  you  remember  me  ?    Who  am  I  ? 


Ii6  GIOCONDA 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
Are  you  not  la  Sirenetta  ? 

LA  SIRENETTA 

Yes,  you  have    remembered   me.     When  did  you 
come  back? 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
Not  long  ago. 

LA  SIRENETTA. 
You  will  stay  ? 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
A  long  time  longer. 

LA  SIRENETTA. 
Till  the  winter,  perhaps, 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
Perhaps. 

LA  SIRENETTA. 

And  your  little  girl  ? 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
I  expect  her  to-day.     She  is  coming. 

LA  SIRENETTA. 
Beata  !     Isn't  she  called  Beata  ? 


GIOCONDA  117 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
Yes  Beata. 

LA    SlRENETTA. 

You  called  her  that,  Beata,  not  Beatrice.  When 
she  was  here,  she  asked  me  every  day  for  star-fish, 
stars  of  the  sea.  Did  she  tell  you  ?  She  made  mo 
sing.  Did  she  tell  you  ? 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

Yes,  she  told  me.  She  remembers  you  She  likes 
you. 

LA    SlRENETTA. 

She  likes  me  !  I  know.  She  gave  me  some  of  her 
bread  every  day. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

You  shall  have  it  every  day,  if  you  like.  Bread 
and  food,  Sirenetta,  morning  and  night,  whenever 
you  like.  Eemember. 

LA    SlRENETTA. 

Morning  and  night  I  will  bring  you  a  star-fish. 
Will  you  have  one  ?  A  pretty  one,  larger  than  a 
hand  ? 

SILVIA    SETTALA,  troubled,  draws  back   her  arms 
with  an  instinctive  movement. 


n  8  GIOCONDA 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
No,  no,  keep  it  for  Beata. 

LA  SIUENETTA. 
[Surprised.]     "Won't  you  have  it  ? 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

Tell  me  instead  what  you  do  with  your  life,  tell  me 
how  you  spend  the  day.  Is  it  true  that  you  talk 
with  the  sirens  of  the  sea  ?  Tell  me  all  about  it, 

Sirenetta, 

LA  SIRENETTA. 

Seven  sisters  were  we, 

Our  mirror  the  fountain  head, 

All  of  us  fair  to  see. 

"  Flower  of  the  bulrush  makes  no  bread, 

Hedgerow  mulberry  makes  no  wine, 

Blade  of  grass  no  linen  fine," 

Tl e  mother  to  the  sisters  said  ; 

All  of  us  fair  to  see, 

And  our  mirror  the  fountain-head. 

The  first  was  fain  to  spin, 

And  wished  for  spindles  of  gold  ; 

The  second  to  weave  threads  in, 

And  wished  for  shuttles  of  gold  ; 

The  third  to  sew  at  her  leisure, 


GIOCONDA  119 

And  wished  for  needles  of  gold  ; 
The  fourth  to  cook  for  her  pleasure, 
And  wished  for  platters  of  gold  ; 
The  fifth  to  sleep  beyond  measure, 
And  wished  for  dreams  of  gold  ; 
The  sixth  to  sleep  night  away, 
And  wished  for  coverings  of  gold  ; 
The  last  to  sing  all  day, 
To  sing  for  evermore, 
And  wished  for  nothing  more. 
\_SJie  laughs  with  a  quick  glittering  laugh  that 
seems  to  tinkle  against  her  shining  teeth. 

Do  you  like  this  story  ? 

v 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

[Charmed  by  the  grace  of  the  simple  creature.]  Is 
that  all  ?  Why  don't  you  go  on  ? 

LA  SlRENETTA. 

If  you  sit  here,  I  will  put  you  to  sleep  as  I  put  your 
child  to  sleep  on  the  sands.  Are  you  not  sleepy  now  ? 
Sleep  is  good,  in  September. 

September  bears  to  the  plain 

The  windy  breath  of  the  mountain  rain; 

And  puts  the  summer  to  sleep  again. 

Amen. 


(20  GIOCONDA 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
No.     Go  on  with  your  story,  Siren etta. 

L/V  SIRENETTA. 

The  olive  darkens  for  shedding, 

Sorrow  speeds  the  wedding, 

Oil  and  tears  wait  for  the  treacling. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
Go  on  with  your  story,  Sirenetta. 

LA  SIRENETTA. 
Where  had  we  got  ? 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
"  And  wished  for  nothing  more  !  "  [A  pause. 

LA  SIRENETTA. 
Ah,  here  it  is  : 

"  Flower  of  the  bulrush  makes  no  bread, 

Hedgerow  mulberry  makes  no  wine, 

Blade  of  grass  no  linen  fine," 

The  mother  to  the  sisters  said  ; 

All  of  us  fair  to  see, 

And  our  mirror  the  fountain-head. 


GIOCONDA  121 

And  so  the  first  one  spun 
Her  own  heart's  woe  for  the  morrow  ; 
And  so  the  second  wove, 
And  wove  the  cloth  of  sorrow ; 
And  so  the  third  one  sewed 
A  poisoned  shirt  to  wear  ; 
And  so  the  fourth  one  cooked 
A  dish  of  heart's  despair  ; 
And  so  the  fifth  one  slept 
Under  the  coverings  of  death  ; 
And  so  the  sixth  one  dreamt 
In  the  arms  of  death. 
The  mother  wept  full  sore, 
And  sighed  away  her  breath; 
But  the  last,  that  only  sang 
To  sing,  to  sing  all  day, 
To  sing  for  evermore, 
Found  her  a  happy  fate. 
[She   lowers  her  voice  and  makes  it  secret  and 

remote. 

The  sirens  of  the  bay 
Called  her  to  be  their  mate.  [A  pause. 

SILVIA  SETT  A  LA 
T'..en  it  is  true  that  you  talk  with  the  sirens  ? 


122  GIOCONDA 

LA  SlKEXETTA. 

[Putting  her  forefinger  to  her  lips.]  Mustn't  ask  ! 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

Is  it  true  that  no  one  knows  where  you  sleep  at 
night  ? 

LA  SlREXETTA. 

[With  the  same  gesture.]  Mustn't  ask  ! 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
Shall  I  give  you  shelter,  here  in  the  house  ? 

LA  SIREXETTA. 

[Looking  intently  in  her  face,  as  if  she  had  not  heard 
the  question.]  Your  eyes  are  sad.  I  did  not  know 
what  troubled  me  when  I  looked  at  them,  Now  I 
see  :  you  have  a  great  sorrow  in  your  eyes.  Some  one 
of  yours  is  dead. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
You  alone  can  comfort  me. 

LA  SlRENETTA. 

Who  of  yours  is  dead  ? 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 


GIOCONDA  123 

LA  SlRENETTA, 

Now  I  see  you :  you  are  not  the  same.  I  was 
thinking  of  a  swallow,  last  September,  who  had  lost 
his  longest  feathers,  and  was  nearly  drowned  in  the 
sea.  What  have  they  done  to  you  ?  Something  wicked 
has  been  done  to  you. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
Mustn't  ask  ! 

[Instinctively  she  hides  her  arms  without  hands 
in  the  folds  of  her  garment,  ivith  a  sorrowful 
movement,  tvhich  does  not  escape  the  notice  of 
the  bewitching  creature  ;  who  suddenly,  as  if 
intentionally,  drops  the  end  of  her  apron,  so 
that  her  little  sea  treasure  falls  and  is  scat- 
tered over  the  ground. 

LA  SlRENETTA. 

[Stooping  and  choosing,]  Will  you  have  a  star-fish, 
a  pretty  one,  bigger  than  a  hand  ?  Look  ! 

[She  shows  the  mutilated  woman  a  large  sea-star 

with  Jive  rays. 
Take  it !  1  give  it  to  you. 

[The  mutilated  woman  shakes  her  head  in  sign  of 
refusal,  pressing  her  lips  tor/ether,  as  if  to  keep 
down  the  knot  that  tightens  in  her  throat. 


124  GIOCONDA 

Can't  you  ?    Are  your  hands  sick,  tied  up  ? 

\The  mutilated  woman  nods  her  head.  LA 
SIREXETTA'S  voice  becomes  tremulous  with 
pity. 

Did  you  fall  into  the  fire  ?    Were  you  burnt  ?     Do 
they  still  hurt  ?  Or  are  they  getting  better  ? 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
[In  a  scarcely  audible  voice.]  I  haven't  any  hands. 

LA  SIREXETTA. 

[Rising  in  affright.]  You  haven't  any!    They  have 
cut  them  off?     No  hands  ? 

[The  mutilated  woman  nods  her  head,  frightfully 

pale.     The  other  shivers  with  horror. 
No,  no,  no  !    It  isn't  true, 

[She  keeps  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  folds  of  the  gar- 
ment in  which  the  mutilated  woman  hides  her 
arms. 
Tell  me  it  isn't  true. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
I  haven't  any  hands. 

LA  SlRENETTA. 

Why?  why? 


GIOCONDA  125 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
Mustn't  ask! 

LA  SlRENETTA. 

Ah,  what  a  cruel  thing  ! 

SILVIA  SETTALA, 
I  gave  them  away. 

LA  SlRENETTA 

You  gave  them  away  ?    To  whom  ? 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
To  my  love. 

LA  SlRENETTA. 

Ah,  what  a  cruel  love  !  How  beautiful  they  were, 
how  beautiful  !  Do  you  think  I  don't  remember  ?  I 
have  kissed  them  ;  many  many  times.  I  have  kissed 
them  with  this  mouth.  They  gave  me  bread,  a  pome- 
granate, a  cup  of  milk.  They  were  as  beautiful  as 
if  the  dawn  had  made  them  with  a  breath,  as  white 
as  the  flower  of  the  foam,  more  delicate  than  the 
embroidery  that  the  wind  makes  on  the  band  ;  they 
moved  like  the  sun  in  the  water,  they  talked  better 
than  the  tongue  or  the  eyes,  they  said  kind  words, 
what  they  gave  turned  to  gold.  I  remember  them  ! 
I  see  them,  I  see  them.  One  day  they  were  playing 


126  GIOCONDA 

with  the  warm  sand  :  the  sand  ran  between  the  fingers 
as  through  a  sieve,  and  they  were  pleased  at  playing; 
and  Beata  looked  at  them  and  laughed  ;  and  I  looked 
at  them  and  had  the  same  pleasure.  One  day  they 
peeled  an  orange  ;  and"  made  it  into  many  pieces,  and 
touched  me  with  one  of  thorn,  and  it  was  as  sweet  as 
a  honeycomb.  One  day  they  wrapped  a  handkerchief 
about  the  little  one's  foot,  and  she  was  crying  because 
a  crab  had  nipped  her,  and  the  pain  stopped  all  at 
once,  and  the  little  one  began  to  run  along  the  shore. 
One  day  they  played  with  those  lovely  curls,  and  of 
every  curl  they  made  a  ring  for  every  finger,  and 
then  began  over  again,  and  then  began  over  again  ; 
and  Beata  fell  asleep  with  the  dew  on  her  lips. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

[Tn  a  choking  voiee.]  Don't   yay  any  more!    don't 
say  any  more  ! 

La  SlRENETTA. 

Ah,  what  a  cruel  love  ! 

[A  pause.     She  remains  pensive.] 

And  where  are  they  ?  Far  away,  all  alone,  in  the 
earth,  deep  down.  Did  they  bury  them  ?  Where  ?  In 
a  pretty  garden  ? 

[A  pause.     The  mvtilated  woman  shuts  her  eyes 


GIOCONDA  127 

and  leans  her  head  against  the  ivindow,  in 

which  the  quiver  of  the  sea  is  reflected. 
Did  you  see  them  taken  away  ?  How  white  they 
were  !  They  have  wrapped  them  up  in  strong  oint- 
ment. And  the  rings  ?  With  all  the  rings  ?  There 
was  one  with  a  green  stone,  and  one  with  three  pearls, 
and  one  of  gold  and  iron  twisted,  and  a  smooth  one,  a 
shining  hoop,  and  only  that  one  was  on  the  third 
finger. 

\A  paicse.     An  indefinable  expression  appears  on 

the  face  of  the  mutilated  woman,  as  she  lets 

her  arms  drop  by  her  sides,  while  the  rigidity 

of  her  whole  body  slackens. 

What  are  you  thinking  about  ?     Dreaming  of  them  ? 
If  they  should  grow  warm  again.   .   .  . 

\The    mutilated    woman    opens    her    eyes    and 

starts,  as  if  siiddenly  awakened.     Her  arms 

quiver. 
What  is  the  matter  ? 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

It  is  strange.  Sometimes  it  really  seems  to  me  as 
if  I  have  them  again,  I  seem  to  feel  the  blood  rise  to 
the  tips  of  my  fingers.  When  you  spoke,  I  had  them  : 
they  were  more  beautiful,  Sireuetta  ! 


128  GIOCONDA 

LA  SlRENETTA. 

More  beautiful? 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

You  will  com f orb  me,  Sirenetta.  I  cannot  take 
your  star-fish,  but  I  can  see  your  eyes  and  hear  your 
voice.  Keep  near  me,  now  I  have  found  you  again 
I  would  like  to  have  you  for  a  sister. 

LA  SIRENETTA. 

I  would  like  you  to  have  my  hands,  if  they  were 
not  so  rough  and  dark. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

Your  hands  are  happy  hands :  they  touch  the 
leaves,  the  flowers,  the  sand,  the  water,  the  stones, 
children,  animals,  all  innocent  things.  You  are  happy, 
Sirenetta :  your  soul  is  born  again  every  morning ; 
now  it  is  little  as  a  pearl,  and  now  it  is  large  as  the 
sea.  You  have  nothing  and  everything ;  you  know 
nothing  and  everything. 

LA  SIRENETTA. 

[Turning  suddenly  and  interrupting  her.]  Did  you 
feel  the  gust  ?  Look,  look  how  many  swallows  on  the 


GIOCONDA  129 

sea !  There  are  more  than  a  thousand :  a  living 
cloud.  Look  how  they  shine !  Now  they  are  off ; 
they  are  going  on  a  long  journey,  to  a  far  away  land ; 
the  shadow  walks  over  the  water  with  them  ;  some 
feathers  are  falling :  evening  will  come  on  ;  they  will 
meet  the  ships  on  the  high  sea  ;  they  will  seethe  fires, 
hear  the  songs  of  the  sailors  ;  the  sailors  will  see  them 
pass  ;  they  will  pass  close  to  the  sails ;  one  of  them 
will  strike  against  the  sails,  and  fall  on  the  deck,  tired. 
One  night,  a  cloud  of  tired  swallows  fell  upon  a  ship 
like  a  flock  of  starlings  on  the  deck  and  quite  covered 
it.  The  sailors  never  touched  them.  They  never 
moved,  for  fear  of  frightening  them ;  they  never 
spoke,  so  that  they  might  go  to  sleep.  And  as  they 
were  all  over  the  stock  of  the  anchor  and  the  bar  of 
the  rudder,  that  night  the  ship  went  drifting  under 
the  moon.  But  at  dawn  .  .  .  Ah,  who  is  calling  to 
you  ? 

[She    interrupts   her   dream,   hearing  a  strange 
voice  among  the  oleanders;  and  prepares  to 

fly- 

Good-bye,  good-bye. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

[Anxioiisly]    It  is  my  sister.     Do  not  run  away,  do 
not  go,  Sirenetta.     Stay  here  near.     Beata  is  coming. 

I 


130  GIOCONDA 

LA  SlRENETTA. 

Gooi-bye,  good-bye.     I  will  come  back. 

[Runs  towards  the  sea,  vanishing  into  the  sum- 
light. 


SCENE   II. 

FRANCESCA  DONI  appears  between  the  oleanders,  followed 
by  the  old  man,  LORENZO  GADDI. 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 
Do  you  see  who  I  am  bringing  JTOU  ? 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
[Anxiously.']  And  Beata  ?     And  Beata  ? 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 

She  is  coming  presently.  I  left  her  with  Faustina. 
I  came  beforehand,  so  that  she  should  not  come  to 
you  unexpectedly. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

Dear  Maestro,  how  pleased  I  am  to  see  you  ! 

[The   old   man   instinctively     stretches   out    his 


GIOCONDA  131 

hands  towards  her.  She  bends  slightly  and 
offers  him  her  forehead,  which  he  touches 
with  his  lips. 

LOKENZO  GADDI. 

[Concealing  his  emotion.]  How  happy  I  am  to  see 
you  again,  dear  Silvia,  and  to  see  you  up  and  well 
again !  The  sea  helps  you.  The  sea  is  always  the 
great  comforter.  At  Forte  dei  Marmi,  yonder,  I 
thought  much  of  you. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
Is  Forte  dei  Marmi  far  from  here  ? 

LORENZO  GADDI. 

[Pointing  to  the  distant  shore.]  Yonder,  under 
Serravizza,  on  this  side  of  Massa. 

[They  look  out  of  the  window  into  the  distance. 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 

How  well  one  can  see  the  mountains  of  Carrara 
to-day  !  You  can  count  the  peaks  one  by  one.  I 
never  remember  a  clearer  day  than  this.  Who  was 
with  you,  Silvia  ?  La  Sirenetta  ?  I  thought  I  saw 


132  GIOCONDA 

her  running  towards  the  sea.     And  then  here  are  her 
traces  :  sea-weed,  shells,  star-fish. 

[She  points  to  the  childish  treasures  scattered  over 
the  ground. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
Yes,  she  was  with  me  just  now. 

LORENZO  GADDI. 
Who  is  la  Sirenetta  ? 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 
A  little  wandering  mad  creature. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

A  seer,  who  has  the  gift  of  song ;  a  creature  of 
dream  and  truth,  who  seems  a  spirit  of  the  sea.  You 
should  know  her  and  love  her  as  I  do.  When  you 
know  her  and  hear  her  speak,  you  find  out  many 
deep  things.  Truly  she  will  seem  to  you  perfect :  she 
always  gives  and  never  asks. 

LORENZO  GADDI. 
She  is  like  you  in  that. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

Alas,  no.  I  should  like  to  have  been  like  her  in 
that ;  but  tne  light  died  away  before  the  deceit  of 


GIOCONDA  133 

life.  What  blindness  !  I  asked  so  much,  that  to 
obtain  it,  I  stooped  to  tell  a  lie :  I  came  out 
mutilated,  maimed,  in  punishment  for  my  lie.  I 
had  stretched  out  my  hands  too  violently  towards 
a  good  thing  that  fate  denied  me.  I  do  not 
lament  or  weep.  Since  I  must  live,  I  will  live. 
Perhaps  one  day  my  soul  will  be  healed.  I  felt  some 
hope  arise  in  me,  as  I  listened  to  the  voice  of  that 
simple  and  guileless  creature  who  can  teach  eternal 
things.  She  has  promised  to  bring  me  a  star-fish 
every  morning. 

[She  tries  to  smile.  The  sister  stands  near  the 
vnndow  and  seems  to  be  looking  intently  at 
the  distant  mountains  ;  but  there  is  a  shadow 
of  sadness  over  her  gentle  face. 

Look,  Maestro,  at  the  lady  with  the  bunch  of  flowers. 
She  has  come  with  me.  Now,  if  I  look  at  her,  there 
is  something  mournful  in  her  for  me  :  all  the  same 
I  could  not  separate  myself  from  her.  Do  you 
remember,  Maestro,  that  day  in  April,  that  garlanded 

head? 

LORENZO  GADDI. 

I  remember,  I  remember. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
The  new  life ! 


134  GIOCONDA 

LORENZO  GADDI. 
There  was  an  omen  in  everything. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

When  I  see  the  camels  pass  loaded  with  faggots, 
there,  on  the  other  side  of  the  Arno,  in  the  thickets 
of  Gombo,  I  think  of  the  arrival  of  Cosimo  Dalbo,  of 
the  joy  of  that  evening,  of  the  scarabseus  that  I  put  in 
the  midst  of  a  bunch  of  roses  that  Beata  had  picked. 
[Turns  towards  her  sister.]  O  Francesca,  I  speak,  and 
all  the  while  my  heart  troubles  me  ?o  that  I  can 
resist  no  longer.  Where  is  Beata  3 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 

[Wrung  with  pain.]  You  want  to  see  her  now? 
You  are  strong  ? 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

Yes,  yes,  I  am  strong,  I  am  ready.  Suspense  is 
worse. 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 

Then  I  will  go  and  bring  her  to  you. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
Unable  to  contain  her  anxiety.]  Wait   a   minute. 


GIOCONDA  135 

Will  you  not  stay  with  us  here  to-night,  Maestro  ? 
I  should  be  glad. 

LORENZO  GADDI. 
Well,  yes,  I  will  stay. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

We  can  put  you  up.  I  will  have  your  room  got 
ready.  Wait,  Francesca,  a  minute. 

[She  is  convulsed  with  emotion,  which  she  can  no 
longer  restrain.  She  goes  towards  the  door 
like  one  who  runs  away  to  hide  the  tears  that 
are  about  to  break  forth. 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 
Shall  I  come,  Silvia  ? 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
[With  a  choking  voice.]  No,  no.  [Goes  out. 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 

Ah,  the  curse,  the  curse  !  Do  you  see  her  ?  While 
she  was  in  bed,  under  the  bedclothes,  bound  up, 
bleeding,  all  the  horror  of  the  thing  did  not  appear. 
But  now  that  she  is  on  her  feet  again,  now  that  she 
moves,  walks,  sees  her  friends,  returns  to  her  old  ways, 


136  GIOCONDA 

is  about  to  use  the  gestures  that  she  used  to  use ! 
Think  of  it ! 

LORENZO  GADDI. 

Yes,  it  is  too  frightful  a  fate.  I  remember  what 
you  said  to  her  so  tenderly,  as  you  looked  at  her,  on 
that  day  in  April :  "  You  seem  as  if  you  had  wings !  " 
The  beauty  and  lightness  of  her  hands  gave  her  the 
aspect  of  a  winged  thing.  There  was  in  her  a  kind  of 
incessant  quiver.  Now  it  is  as  if  she  dragged  her- 
self along. 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 

And  it  was  a  useless  sacrifice,  like  all  the  others ;  it 
has  done  nothing,  changed  nothing :  that  is  where  it 
is  so  frightful  a  fate.  If  Lucio  had  stayed  with  her, 
I  believe  she  would  have  been  happy  to  have  been 
able  to  give  that  last  proof,  to  have  been  able  to 
sacrifice  for  him  her  living  hands.  But  she  knows 
now  all  the  truth,  in  all  its  nakedness.  Ah,  what  an 
infamous  thing !  Would  you  have  believed  that 
Lucio  was  capable  of  it  ?  Tell  me. 

LORENZO  GADDI. 

He  too  has  his  fate,  and  he  obeys  it.  As  he  was 
not  master  of  his  death,  so  he  is  not  master  of  his  life. 
I  saw  him  yesterday.  He  had  written  me  at  Forte 


GIOCONDA  137 

dei  Marmi  to  ask  me  to  go  to  the  quarry  and  send  him 
a  block.  I  saw  him  yesterday  in  his  studio.  His 
face  is  so  thin  that  it  seems  burnt  up  in  the  fire  of 
his  eyes.  When  he  speaks,  he  becomes  strangely 
excited.  It  troubled  me.  He  works,  works,  works, 
with  a  terrible  fury  :  perhaps  he  is  seeking  to  rid 
himself  of  a  thought  that  gnaws  him. 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 
The  statue  is  still  there  ? 

LORENZO  GADDI. 

It  is  still  there,  without  arms.  He  has  left  it  so : 
he  would  not  restore  it.  So,  on  the  pedestal,  it  looks 
really  like  an  ancient  marble,  dug  up  in  one  of  the 
Cyclades.  There  is  in  it  something  sacred  and  tragic, 
after  the  divine  immolation. 

FRANCESCA  DONI. 

[In  a  low  voice.]  And  that  woman,  the  Gioconda, 
wab  there  ? 

LORENZO  GADDI. 

She  was  there,  silent.  When  one  looks  at  her, 
and  thinks  that  she  is  the  cause  of  so  much  evil, 
truly  one  cannot  curse  her  in  his  heart ;  no,  one 


138  GIOCONDA 

cannot,  when  one  looks  at  her,     I  have  never  seen 
so  great  a  mystery  in  mortal  flesh. 

[A  pause.     The  old  man  and  the  sister  remain 

in   thought,  for   some  instants,  with    bowed 

heads. 

FKANCESCA  DONI. 

[Sighing  because  of  the  anguish  that  oppresses  herJ] 
My  God,  my  God !  And  now  it  is  time  to  bring 
Beata  to  her  mother,  and  they  will  see  one  another 
again,  after  all  that  has  happened  ;  and  the  little  one 
will  learn  the  truth,  will  know  the  horrible  thing. 
How  is  one  to  hide  it,  from  her,  remembering  all  her 
caresses,  and  mad  for  them  !  You  saw  her,  you 
heard  her,  of  old.  .  .  . 

[SILVIA  SETTALA  reappears  on  the  threshold.  Her 
eyes  are  burning  and  all  her  body  is  con- 
tracted by  a  spasmodic  f wee. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

I  am  here,  Francesca ;  I  am  ready.  The  room  is 
ready,  Maestro,  if  you  would  like  to  go  to  it. 

LORENZO  GADDI. 

[Going  towards  her,  and  in  a  voice  trembling  with 
emotion.']  Courage  !  It  is  the  last  ordeal. 


GIOCONDA  139 

\He  goes  out  by  the  door.     The  mutilated  woman 
goes  towards  her  sister,  breathlessly. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

Now  go,  go  !  Bring  her.     I  will  wait  here. 

[The  sister  puts  her  arms  round  her  necJc  and 
kisses  her  in  silence.  Then  she  goes  out 
towards  the  sea,  and  disappears  rapidly 
among  the  oleanders. 


SCENE  III. 

SILVIA  SETTALA,  breathlessly,  looks  through  the  midst 
of  the  boughs  lighted  by  the  oblique  rays  of  the 
sun.  The  hour  is  exquisitely  peaceful.  The  light 
is  more  limpid  than  the  windows  of  the  white 
room  ;  the  sea  is  tranquil  as  thejlower  of  the  flax, 
so  motionless  that  the  long  reflections  of  the  mir- 
rored sails  seem  to  touch  the  bottom;  the  stream 
seems  to  create  that  immense  repose,  pouring  out 
the  perennial  wa,ve  of  its  peace  ;  the  health-giving 
woods,  penetrated  with  fluid  gold,  rejoice  marvel- 
lously, almost  as  if  they  lost  their  roots  that  they 
might  swim  in  the  delight  of  their  odour ;  the 
marble  Alps  in  the  distance  trace  a  line  of  beauty 


140  GIOCONDA 

on  the  sky,  in  which  they  seem  to  reveal  the  dream 
arising  out  of  their  imprisoned  populace  of  sleep- 
ing statues. 

LA   SIRENETTA   re -appears  in  the   silence ,    through 
which  her  pure  voice  is  heard. 

LA    SlRENETTA 

Are  you  alone  ? 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
\Agitated.~\     Yes.     I  am  waiting. 

LA    SlRENETTA 

[Coming  close  to  her.]     Have  you  been  crying  ? 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
Yes,  a  little. 

LA    SlRENETTA. 

[With  infinite  pity.]  You  seem  as  if  you  had  been 
crying  for  a  year  Your  eyes  are  burning  Your 
heart  hurts  you  too  much. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
Don't  speak.     I  cannot  crush  my  heart. 

[She   presses   Jierself   against   the   trunk   of  the 
nearest  oleander,  convulsed,  no  longer  able  to 
endure  the  agony  of  waiting 
She  is  coming  now,  she  is  coming  now. 

[She  moves  away  from  the  tree  and  re-enters  the 


GIOCONDA  141 

room,  as  if  seized  with  terror,  like  one  seeking 
refuge. 

THE  VOICE  OP  BEATA. 

[From  among  the  oleanders.]  Mamma  !  Mamma ! 

[The  mother  starts,  and  turns,  frightfully  pallid. 
Mamma ! 

[The  child  rushes  toioards  her  mother  with  a  cry 
of  joy,  her  face  lit  up,  heated,  her  hair  in  dis- 
order, panting  after  a  long  run,  carrying  an 
untidy  bunch  of  flowers.  As  she  runs  in,  the 
bunch  falls.  The  mutilated  woman  stoops 
towards  the  little  arms  that  clasp  her  neck,  and 
offers  her  death-like  face  to  the  furious  kisses. 
SILVIA  SETTALA. 

Beata !  Beata ! 

BEATA. 

[Panting.]  Ah,  how  I  have  run,  how  I  have  run ! 
I  ran  away  from  them,  all  alone.  I  ran,  I  ran.  They 
didn't  want  to  let  me  come.  Ah,  but  I  ran  away  from 
them,  with  my  bunch  of  flowers. 

[Covers  her  mother's  face  with  fresh  kisses. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 

You  are  all  damp  with  sweat,  you  are  hot,  burn- 
ing. .  .  Mv  God ! 


142  GIOCONDA 

[In  her  rush  of  tenderness  she  instinctively  makes 
a  movement  as  if  to  wipe  the  child's  face;  but 
stops  and  hides  her  arms  in  the  folds  of  her 
garments  ;  and  a  shiver  of  visible  horror  runs 
through  her. 

BEATA. 

"Why  don't  you  take  me  up  ?  Why  don't  you  put 
your  arms  round  me  ?  Take  me  up,  take  me  up, 
mamma ! 

[She  rises  on  tiptoe,  to  be  caught  into  her  mother's 
embrace.  The  mother  takes  a  step  backwards, 
blindly. 

SILVIA  SETT  ALA. 
Beata ! 

BEATA. 

[Following  her.~\    Don't  you  want  me  ?  don't  you 

want  me  ? 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
Beata ! 

[She  tries  to  feign  a  smile  with  her  ashen  lips, 
distorted  by  tmspeakable  sorrow, 

BEATA. 

Is  it  for  fun  ?  What  are  you  hiding  ?  0,  give, 
give  me  what  you  are  hiding ! 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
Beata  !  Beata  I 


GIOCONDA  143 

BEATA. 

I  have  brought  you  flowers,  such  a  lot  of  flowers. 
Do  you  see  ?  do  you  see  ? 

[As  she   turns  to  pick  up  the  fallen  bunch,  she 
perceives  her  little  wild  friend,  and  remembers 
her. 
Oh,  Sirenetta !     Are  you  there  ? 

[LA  SIRENETTA  is  there,  before  the  window,  stand- 
ing, a  silent  witness,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the 
sorrowful  mother.  As  the  repeated  breath  of 
the  wind  passes  between  the  fronds  of  an 
arbutus  and  makes  it  tremble,  so  the  sorrow  of 
the  mother  seems  to  invest  and  penetrate  that 
slender  body  which  the  oblique  rays  of  the 
sun  ring  with  bands  of  gold. 
Do  you  see  what  a  lot  ?  All  for  you ! 

[The  child  picks  up  the  bunch. 
Take  it ! 

[She  runs  towards  her  mother  again,  who  steps 
back. 

SILVIA  SETTALA. 
Beata !  Beata ! 

BEATA 

[Astonished.]  Don't  you  want  them  ?     Take  them ! 
Take  them  1 


144  GIOCONDA 

SILVIA  SETTALA 
Beaia ! 

[She  falls  on  her  knees,  overcome  with  sorrow,  as 
if  stricken  by  an  unendurable  blow,  falls  on 
her  knees  before  her  frightened  child  ;  and  a 
flood  of  tears,  that  bursts  from  her  eyes  like 
blood  from  a  wound,  bathes  her  face. 

BEATA. 

You  are  crying  ?     You  are  crying  ? 

[frightened  she  throws  herself  upon  her  mother's 
breast,  with  all  her  /lowers.  LA  SIRENETTA, 
who  has  also  fallen  on  her  knees,  lays  her 
forehead  and  the  palms  of  her  hands  upon  ths 
ground. 


THE  END. 


Printed  by  BALLANTYNE,  HANSON  &•»  Co. 
at  Paul's  Work,  Edinburgh 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

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